


In This Light

by exhilarated



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Edging, Famous Louis, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Minor Character Death, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Pining, Rimming, Secret Crush, Stylist Harry, famous/non-famous
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-24
Updated: 2015-11-24
Packaged: 2018-05-01 00:52:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 99,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5186000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/exhilarated/pseuds/exhilarated
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry is a wardrobe stylist who likes to live in the moment, and Louis is a popstar who looks dreamy in double breasted jackets. Harry never stood a chance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part I: Promo Season

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tilthesundies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tilthesundies/gifts).



> _You are looking at something that started as a simple exchange fic and ended as a 100k-word love letter to Louis Tomlinson. Louis, here's my heart for you. I love you, and I'm more proud of you than you'll know. Don't ever stop fighting._    
>  
> 
> First things first, to my prompter tilthesundies, this is for you. I hope you love it. Thank you for giving me the perfect prompt, and for letting me run with it. Have fun finding the bits of your other prompts I sprinkled throughout! 
> 
> Thanks, of course, to the moderators of the Louis Centric Fic Exchange. Thank you for your hard work and dedication to this exchange!
> 
> To my betas, [Maya](http://tmfelton.tumblr.com) and [Coleen](http://inkstainedlouis.tumblr.com). Thank you for your encouragement and enthusiasm. I can't thank you enough for being excited about my fic, and for your tireless work. Especially to Coleen, for seeming to know my characters better than I did at times. You have challenged me, stretched me, and most of all, encouraged me.
> 
> To my friends, who probably got sick of my constant talking about this fic, but listened to every word anyway. And to my professors. I'll probably be a better student now that I'm finished this. Sorry.
> 
> I am by no means a fashion expert, so please bear with me--I did my best! I took some artistic liberty with dates and things. For example, the Brits don't take place in January, and Nick Grimshaw's birthday is actually in August. Please have the mercy of suspension of disbelief on me, a poor fic writer. Also, I sprinkled some songs here and there, either as songs the characters were listening to, or as tracks at the beginning of new sections. They aren't necessary, but I added them because they generally convey the mood I intended for the scene and they may enhance your reading experience.
> 
> The title comes from Fallingforyou by the 1975.
> 
> Come say hello/let me know what you thought on[ Tumblr](http://scrabbleharrie.tumblr.com) :)
> 
> Enough talking, though. I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it <3

**PART I - PROMO SEASON**

**November**

Harry zippers his bag. As the metal scratches against metal, rose coloured fingers of light crawl across a pale gold sky. Dusty yellow sunlight leaks through sheer curtains and spills across the floor of the hotel room that smells strongly of soap and faintly of burnt coffee. His shirts will wrinkle in his too-small bag. His flight will be delayed.

Outside his window and hundreds of metres below, lights begin to appear in the windows of flats and office buildings like the first stars at night and people spill out of doorways and onto the streets carrying coffee cups and bagels wrapped in paper. New York City stretches and rubs the dust of sleep from its eyes.

Harry hasn’t slept at all.

He pushes his bag beside the door and sits down on the plush white comforter. Tucking one leg beneath him, he pries open the lid of his laptop. His fingers flutter over the keypad as he opens his browser to a search engine and types into the search bar: Louis Tomlinson.

He scrolls.

The moment hangs, heavy as velvet and delicate as silence.

He snaps the lid shut, tucking the laptop into his bag. A car horn blares from below as he steps out into the hallway. He hits play on his iPod, his headphones tucked into his ears so that he doesn’t hear the door as it closes behind him.

* * * * *

“Yes, this is Harry Styles.”

Harry’s phone is nestled between his shoulder and his ear. The back wall of the duty-free shop is lined with hats and scarves and he stares up at them, scanning for something he might be able to take with him. He spots a floral print scarf and runs his fingers across the fabric. He imagines pairing it with his black blazer and a pale-coloured button-down. He leaves it hanging on the hook.

“Excellent,” comes a terse voice from the other end of the line. “My name is Simon Cowell, I’m with Louis Tomlinson’s management. I’m sure you’ve been expecting my call?”

Harry thumbs the rim of a felt black fedora. “I have.”

“Great. I was hoping we could establish a bit of a timeline.”

“A timeline,” Harry echoes. He can smell coffee from somewhere nearby. As he walks out of the duty-free shop, he gives the cashier a polite smile and nod, and heads in what he hopes is the direction of a Starbucks.

“Yes. We are excited to have you as a new member of the team, seeing as how you have worked with the likes of other pop artists such as Niall Horan, and we are anxious to know when we can expect you to return to the UK. We have quite a busy few months ahead of us. I’m sure you understand, Mr. Styles.”

The airport is blissfully quiet this early in the morning. After years of traveling privately with Niall, the bustle of an airport at rush hour would threaten to ruin him, especially with his already fraying nerves. He catches a glimpse of a green logo.

“I understand.” Harry’s voice is rigidly formal. It’s a habit he has, falling into starch-pressed formality when inside, he’s ready to buckle from nerves. He’s kind of an all-or-nothing sort of person. “I am traveling out of New York this morning and will most likely arrive in London this evening. When is the first day you would like to have me on site?”

“If possible, we would like to have you join us for a meeting with Mr. Tomlinson tomorrow. Do you think you can manage that?”

Tomorrow. Harry’s head spins. He feels full of air, ready to pop under the slightest pressure. Blessedly, he steps into line at Starbucks and begins to scan the menu, wondering which drink contains the most caffeine. He wonders if there’s any more direct route than his digestive system for the caffeine to enter his bloodstream.

“I can manage that.”

As he says it, he hopes it’s true.

“Wonderful. Have a good flight, Mr. Styles. We’ll be in touch.”

Harry mumbles a farewell, then presses the ‘end call’ button, shoving his phone into his pocket.

When he’d called Gemma last night to tell her that Niall’s team had replaced him with a new wardrobe stylist, she’d hummed something about how this was a great opportunity, about how Harry had always been a live-in-the-moment kind of person, about how much he’d grow because of this change. Then she had reassured him that at least it wasn’t Niall’s decision; that at least it had been his team. Which Harry thought negated everything she had just said about it being objectively wonderful. But she is his big sister, and offering unconditional encouragement is something big sisters just do.

She is right; Harry knows exactly what it is to live in the moment. But even as he travels the world and embraces novelty, he has always needed constants. For years, the job he loved so much—lead wardrobe stylist to international popstar Niall Horan—served as that constant, but when Niall announced a co-tour with Josh Devine and his team decided to hire one stylist for the two of them, his job went from being a constant to a sudden ending and Harry had never felt so unsteady.

At the counter, he orders a hazelnut mocha and leaves a five dollar tip in the barista’s tip jar. Her smile is brilliant as Harry turns to leave, and he almost stops to thank her for it. He needs something bright today.

He walks slowly in the direction of the terminal, his footsteps plodding and unhurried. He takes a lazy sip of his mocha, wrapping his hands around the cup to warm up his hands. He thinks about the combination of coffee and chocolate, and about the splintered yearning feeling of leaving things behind. It’s a jagged ending, and it burns his throat like saltwater.

He’s not in a hurry.

* * * * *

Liam is already there when Harry pushes through the door to his flat, shouldering his black Italian leather Givenchy tote.

“Welcome home!” Liam bellows, lifting one arm from his side. He’s seated on Harry’s sofa, his other arm tucked behind his girlfriend, Sophia, who grins at Harry through a curtain of thick brown hair.

“Oh, hey, Soph!” Harry greets her without batting an eye, dropping his bag onto the floor beside the doorway with a soft thud. “Love the haircut, babe.”

“Thank you, darling,” Sophia smiles, digging a finger into Liam’s ribs, earning an embarrassingly high-pitched squeal from him. “Took this one three whole hours to notice.”

“I told you, you’re always pretty, Soph,” Liam protests. He turns to Harry, gesturing to himself. “What about me, Harry?”

Harry crouches to pull open the zipper of his tote, digging through its contents. “You’ve had the same haircut for like two years, mate,” he replies without making eye contact. “No one’s impressed.”

Liam scowls. “I didn’t mean my haircut. I meant what about _my_ excited greeting?”

“I haven’t seen Sophia in, like, three months. I saw you yesterday morning before you left New York to fly back here.”

“True,” Liam sighs.

Harry plucks a bottle of expensive moisturiser from his bag. It’s lightly scented—citrus mint—and he squeezes a coin-sized amount into his palm and rubs his hands together, smoothing the lotion over both of his tanned forearms. He can’t jump into the shower yet, with Liam and Sophia visiting, but he needs to freshen up like you need to stretch your cramped legs after a long car trip, so the lotion will have to do.

“So what are you doing in my flat, exactly?” Harry questions. “And how did you beat me here, anyway?”

As soon as the question leaves his lips, Harry wonders why he even bothered to ask. Liam has his shit together like no one Harry’s ever met. He also has Harry’s shit together. And up until yesterday, he had a designated file folder in his brain for Niall’s shit, and he kept that together, too. Harry had hired Liam as his assistant, yes, but there was never a doubt in Harry’s mind who was truly running things behind the scenes. It’s not for lack of trying on Harry’s part; it’s just that Harry forgets things, and Liam, well, Liam is a freak of nature.

Harry is the creative mind in the duo, and Liam is...well, pretty much everything else.

“I offered to book your travel for you, mate,” Liam reminds him, “but you refused. You could have been home hours ago, like me.”

“Did you get to sleep on the aeroplane?” Sophia asks.

Harry caps his lotion and tosses it back into the bag, not bothering to zip it back up. “Yes, mum,” he teases. She sticks her tongue out at him, but he knows it’s nothing if not affectionate.

“Anyway,” Liam declares. “I keyed into your flat with the key you gave me last year and I was honestly sorely disappointed by the state of your kitchen.”

“What’s wrong with my kitchen?”

“Well, your cabinets, really,” Liam admits. “Not a bottle of beer or a bag of crisps in sight.”

“Liam, we’ve been on tour for, like, six months.”

“Well, anyway, that’s why I left Sophia here to freshen the place up while I went to get us this,” Liam explains, reaching beside the arm of the sofa and retrieving a six pack of beer. “Call it a housewarming gift. I’m nothing if I’m not a party-thrower.”

Harry raises an eyebrow. “Liam Payne? A party-thrower?” He gratefully accepts a bottle of beer from the pack, popping it open on the lip of the table beside the sofa. Leaning over the table, he peers into the opening at the top of the table-top lamp. “Soph, did you dust my lampshade?”

“I did,” Sophia grins, yanking the top off her own beer bottle. “Proper housewife, I am.”

“Shit, I ought to start paying you,” Harry says, dropping onto the floor beside the sofa in a cross-legged position.

“So, what all do you know about Louis Tomlinson?” Liam asks, reaching for his laptop, which sits on top of the cushion on the other side of Sophia.

Harry shrugs. The beer is bitter and bubbly on his tongue, and it’s warm on the way down. “Not much, if I’m honest. I might recognize a song or two of his.” He absently taps the bottom of the bottle twice against the toe of his shoe. “I googled him back in the hotel room in New York before I left.”

“Me too,” Liam admits. “He’s a cute little fellow.”

“Cute?” Harry snorts. “Why cute?”

“Well, in some videos.”

“You watched videos?” Harry asks, incredulous.

Liam pries open the lid of his laptop, moving over on the sofa to make room for Harry to sit. “Just some interviews. Wanted to know what he’s like,” he shrugs.

“Well, let’s see, then,” Harry prods.

Liam types ‘Louis Tomlinson interview’ into the YouTube search bar, selecting the first result that appears when the page has finished loading. It’s an interview on the Ellen Degeneres show, presumably taped earlier in the summer. They’re discussing the end of his European tour and, for some reason, his favourite breed of dog. He’s small in stature, but large in presence, and he evokes raucous laughter from the audience with almost every answer he gives.

“You’re really meeting him tomorrow, yeah?” Liam points to the tiny laughing figure in the video. “You nervous?”

On the screen, the miniature digital Louis Tomlinson rises from his chair to demonstrate his signature dance move. “Stop the traffic, let the people through,” he says, waving one hand through the air, the other resting behind his head. The crowd erupts in boisterous laughter.

“Nah,” Harry shrugs. “Seems nice enough, I guess.”

* * * * *

Harry hears him before he sees him, and he guesses most people who have met Louis Tomlinson would describe the affair in a similar way.

“Harry Styles,” comes a loud, raucous voice from behind him. “It’s perfect.”

Harry swivels in his chair, and he takes in golden skin, blue eyes, and piercing cheekbones, sharpened by the harsh light of the conference room. In some ways, Louis looks just like the person his search engine results revealed, but his physical presence evokes so much more. He exudes a vibrant energy that draws attention in the room like static electricity.

Harry stands up from his chair, offering a hand. “What’s perfect?”

Louis grips Harry’s hand firmly, and something sparkles in his eyes. Harry isn’t sure what light Louis' eyes are reflecting, because it certainly isn’t the sterile glare of the fluorescent ones above them. It’s warmer, and glitters with laughter.

“Your last name. A wardrobe stylist named Styles.” Louis claps Harry’s shoulder with his free hand, and a grin crawls across the angles of his face. “Must be destiny.”

Harry chuckles, letting go and running his hand through his hair. “Must be,” he shrugs.

Simon clears his throat from across the table. “Gentlemen, everyone please take a seat.”

Cool air hums from the vent in the corner and Harry shifts in his chair, rubbing his hands along the smooth material of his trousers. He watches as Louis sits down across from him, his arms crossed over his chest, radiating calm, smooth confidence. Two other men wearing tailored suits and pinched expressions occupy the chairs lining the table.

“Quite a generous welcome for a new stylist,” Harry muses. “Not sure I’m worth all that.”

A low chuckle ripples through the room like a stone cast into glassy water, and Simon trains his expression into subdued amusement. His suit is tight in the arms, and a bead of sweat trickles down his neck and disappears into the thin fabric of his plain white shirt.

“We have some admittedly...sensitive matters to discuss. This is Richard Griffiths,” he gestures toward the beefy man to his left, whose face is pink and pinched like he’s nervous and sunburnt. His bald head glistens in the sterile light of the conference room. “Griffiths is the head of our publicity department. And this,” he continues, motioning to a slender greying man with deep wrinkles on either side of his eyes, “is Harry Magee. He is our legal counsel here at Simco Management.”

“Pleasure.” Harry reaches across the long, shiny table to shake the hands of both men. Their grips are cripplingly tight. Harry leans back, smoothing his hands along the lapels of his Saint Laurent suede jacket in a reflexive gesture of discomfort, despite his trained demeanor of calm composure and formality.

“Now. Can I offer you some water, Harry?” Simon asks.

Harry nods. “Please.”

The sun is warm on his left side where it filters in through the open blinds over the vast glass window. Simon pours cold water into a tall glass, ice cubes clinking against the sides as he slides it across the table.

“Let’s get started, shall we?” Simon leans across the table, spreading his fingers on the smooth surface. His eyes dart between Louis and Harry, his expression professional and unreadable. “Harry, I hope you had a pleasant flight yesterday. Thank you again for being here. We’ll bring you up to speed. Louis begins his first US tour this February, are you aware of this?”

Harry glances across the table at Louis, praying his expression conceals his cluelessness. He’s never been a tabloid reader, to say the least, and he knows little more about Louis Tomlinson than what his cursory Google searches revealed yesterday. By the slight knowing curve of Louis' smile, he doubts he’s concealed much of anything. Still, he nods, his lips pressed firmly in a thin line.

“Yes, I’m aware.”

“Excellent.” Simon presses his fingertips together under his chin. “The US is a new market for us, so we have plans for three months of promo by way of photoshoots, talk show appearances, and so on, prior to the launch of the tour. This is where you come in.”

Harry nods, turning his glass in circles on the table. Condensation gathers on the sides, trickling down in droplets and pooling around the base. He tips it back on his lip to take a sip.

The heavyset bald man to the left of Simon—Richard Griffiths—clears his throat and opens his large mouth to speak.

“In two days, we have a photoshoot for the tour announcements. We’d like for you to come up with ten to twelve different looks, of which Mr. Tomlinson will choose eight. Will this be enough time for you?”

“Certainly,” Harry agrees. “Can I ask some questions to get a feel for what you’re looking for?” He directs his question toward Louis, who remains noticeably and, from what Harry knows of him so far, uncharacteristically silent. Louis glances, expectant, toward Simon, who noisily clears his throat.

“You can direct your questions to me for the time being,” Simon replies. “We would like to keep relatively tight control of Louis' look for now. Our goal is to display an image that is most highly marketable in the States, you see?”

Harry’s eyes dart over to Louis, and a stone wall would have offered more emotion than Louis' inscrutable expression. His back is painfully straight in his chair.

“I see.”

“We’re looking for relatable. We want casual, fun-loving, ladies-man Louis Tomlinson. Ideally, his wardrobe selections will display these traits.”

Harry struggles to imagine Louis' tight cuffed jeans and scoop-neck pale purple jumper swapped for a skater tank and baggy trousers.

“I understand. Ten to twelve party boy looks by Friday.”

Simon chuckles. “Let’s not call it ‘party boy.’ But I think we’re on the same page. Ten to twelve looks, please, yes.”

Harry nods, and swallows the rest of his water. He feels the cold liquid crawl through his chest and pool in his belly. Louis has him locked in fierce eye contact, and something wild ripples in his expression.

“We’d like to establish some legal, uh,” Harry Magee pauses, “boundaries, if you will. As Mr. Tomlinson’s stylist, you will be audience to some, um, _privileged_ information, so to speak. We ask that you consent to signing an NDA, which will protect everyone involved.”

“I understand,” Harry agrees. NDA’s are about as rare as publicity stunts in the entertainment industry; that is to say, they’re entirely common and unremarkable. He’s signed his fair share working with Niall.

“Great. Well, that’s all we have for today, then.” Simon straightens his posture, clasping his hands together in front of his chest. “Thank you, Mr. Styles, and again, I want to say how pleased we are to have you on the team.”

Griffiths and Magee both nod calmly, hands folded, their expressions anything but pleased.

“Pleased to be here,” Harry replies, mimicking Simon’s polite smile.

Simon gathers his papers into a folder, snapping the folder shut and giving a quick nod as he reaches for the door. His two companions do the same. 

As soon as Simon and his followers are in the hallway, Louis is on his feet next to Harry’s chair.

“I was rude,” Louis proclaims, offering a hand once more. “I never properly introduced myself. I’m Louis Tomlinson.”

“Harry Styles.” Harry stands up to take Louis' hand and shake it a second time.

“I know.” Louis grins. “Heard all about you. Your Niall, he’s a big fan, from what I hear.”

Harry ducks his head, a smile pulling at his lips. 

“I’m sorry about the co-tour thing. ‘S unfair. Selfishly, though, I’m glad it means I was able to hire you. You come with glowing recommendations.”

“Thank you,” Harry says, and the smile pushes through. “I appreciate it.”

“How about drinks?” When Harry hesitates, Louis quickly adds, “On me, of course.”

Harry lifts an eyebrow, placing a hand on his hip. “Do you always invite new members of your team for drinks?”

“Does it matter? I’m inviting you now.”

“Charming.”

Pausing, Harry grins.

“But I'm in.”

* * * * *

That night, exchanging backstories over beers, Harry feels warm inside a buzzing, noisy bar on a chilly November night. And as condensation gathers on the windowsills and the music pulses heavily through the smoky bar air and Louis downs two more beers than Harry does, Harry is surprised by three things.

First, Louis is overflowing with questions about Harry.

Second, he asks those questions as if he truly wants the _answer_ rather than an excuse to fill up empty space with words.

And third, Harry opens for Louis like a book, and he doesn’t mind, because every page he gives him, Louis tucks into his pocket like a favourite poem.

* * * * *

“Hey, mate. How’d it go last night?”

Harry takes the coffee cup Liam is holding out for him, wrapping his cold hands around the sides and inhaling the spicy scent of cinnamon-tinged steam from the opening at the top.

“Mmm. Thank you so much, Li. Cinnamon latte?”

Liam nods, a wide grin pinching at the corners of his eyes. “Yep.”

“Yum. Thank you,” Harry repeats. “Knew I kept you around for a reason.”

As they walk shoulder-to-shoulder down the bustling London street, Harry is grateful to have Liam with him. He had hired Liam as his assistant shortly after Niall’s previous stylist moved on to work for GQ and Harry was promoted from intern to stylist. Liam had been grateful to leave the tyrannical executive he had worked for before Harry, and Harry was just thankful to have an extra set of hands and a friend to join him on his shopping excursions. And now, as rushing bodies press in on all sides and car horns shriek carelessly as they walk down Oxford Street, Harry clutches the coffee Liam generously brought for him and thinks about Niall and backstage dressing rooms and things he left behind in the US and he thanks God or the stars or whoever was responsible for making sure that Liam wasn’t one of those things.

“So?” Liam asks, lifting one eyebrow, glancing at Harry across the lid of his coffee cup. “Last night? The meeting? How’d it go?”

“It went well,” Harry answers, nodding generously. “The manager’s pretentious and kind of overbearing, but Louis' a nice bloke.”

“I knew he would be.” Liam dodges an oncoming bicyclist, bumping into Harry’s side. He reaches out a hand to grasp Harry’s arm. “Sorry, mate. What’s with the manager?”

Harry shrugs. “I don’t know. They’re trying to break the US market and they’re manipulating Louis' image pretty strictly in order to do it, so I mean…” He takes a sip of his latte. “Yeah, he’s just controlling. A pain in the arse, if I’m honest.

“That poor Louis. Classic closet case, innit.”

_Closet case? Like, as in…?_

“What?”

Liam waves his hand dismissively in the air. “Well, you know. I read some things here and there while I was messing around on the internet yesterday. It’s all just rumours, but it would explain the rigid image control.”

Harry shuffles through his memories of last night at the bar, searching for an off-hand comment or uncalculated remark that could substantiate the claim. If Louis had said something, Harry would have remembered it. _Wouldn’t he?_

He just nods, pressing his lips together. Dull unease curls around his stomach and burns like acid in the back of his throat.

“You sure you’re okay helping to build someone’s closet?” Liam prods.

“You don’t even know if the rumours are _true_ , Liam. You can’t believe every fucking thing you read,” Harry snaps.

Liam recoils almost imperceptibly, his expression bruised, though he quickly regains his composure.

“I’m sorry,” Harry apologizes. “I didn’t mean to yell at you. I just—”

“It’s okay,” Liam reassures him, playfully nudging at him with one elbow. “It’s a lot for you. This...all this. I’m sorry about that.”

And, oh, god, why is Liam apologizing to him? Why has Harry been such an arse lately?

The truth is, no, Harry would _not_ be okay with being used as a tool to build someone’s closet. Closeting is rampant in the entertainment industry, and Harry has seen firsthand the damage and torment it can cause a closeted individual. Luckily for him, he has never achieved the level of fame that often requires a closet, but he has seen enough that his stomach lurches at the thought of being involved in the process in any way.

But Louis' image control is not the same as a closet. If he was to be closeted, the topic would have come up in the meeting last night. _Wouldn’t it?_

Surely Louis would have mentioned it at the bar, at least. Harry learned that Louis hates the fuzz on peaches and that he likes to wear socks to bed and that his little sister is terrified of the dark so he used to stay with her and sing her to sleep when they were younger; Louis would have mentioned if he were gay. Probably.

“Yeah, no, I’ll—I’ll figure it out,” Harry mumbles. 

Liam grips his shoulder, and Harry warms with the familiarity of his grin, the eyes that close as his mouth opens wide. “You will.”

“Thanks,” Harry smiles back. He gestures toward a massive concrete building lined with columns and sprawling windows. Above the main entrance, an ornate statue of a woman with wings spread stands atop the bow of her ship. “I was thinking Selfridges today, what do you think?”

“For Louis' photoshoot looks?”

“Yes. Simon wants relatable, young, party boy. At the meeting, Louis had on this gorgeous lavender Burberry sweater—” Harry pauses a moment for dramatic effect, theatrically closing his eyes and clasping his hands in front of his chest, then drops his shoulders in a mix of mock and genuine defeat. “But for the photoshoot I’m thinking of starting with Adidas and Topman to see what I can find.”

“Sounds great.” Liam reaches for the door of the front entrance, sweeping his free arm in front of him. “After you, boss.”

* * * * *

When Harry arrives at [the studio](http://www.shootfactory.co.uk/studios/1137/tv-video-photo-film-location.htmlb) on Friday morning, he brings with him garment bags of Adidas jackets and Topman tees, Vans in bold colours, and a smoothie cup held by a shaky, nervous hand. Liam is waiting for him outside.

“You’re only three minutes late! It’s a record. Strawberry banana?” Liam asks, pulling the front door open as Harry walks toward him, garment bags tossed over his back.

Harry nods, shifting shoeboxes between his arms. “Yeah. I—actually—hang on—” 

“Here, let me,” Liam offers, taking the smoothie from Harry’s hand. “Right around this corner.”

Harry drops a shoebox, and a pair of red Vans go tumbling out, landing in front of his feet. He huffs, dropping the rest of the boxes to scoop the shoes back into their place. Liam clears his throat from the doorway. When Harry looks up at him, he pretends to take a sip from Harry’s smoothie, and Harry throws the left shoe at him, cackling with laughter as Liam folds in half, clutching his stomach. 

“I hope you didn’t just make me scuff the soles of those,” Harry teases.

“No, really,” Liam chokes. “Don’t worry about me. Worry about the shoes.”

Harry shakes his head, chuckling as he piles the shoeboxes back up, balancing them in his arms.

“I’m fine,” Liam gasps, flattening the back of his hand against his forehead.

“Please.” Harry rolls his eyes, walking past Liam and into the studio.

“Everything okay, Mr. Styles?” 

Simon stands in the hall, fingertips pressed together, back straight as a rail.

“Yes, thank you,” Harry replies, looking past Simon at the set-up of the room.

The studio is, for the most part, a standard photography studio. The floors are smooth, polished concrete, and the walls a dusty red brick. An antique gold chandelier glitters from where it hangs over a pair of brown leather couches. Behind the couches, separated by a black velvet curtain, is a long mirror lined with daylight hollywood bulbs, and in front of it, a stainless steel work table stretching the length of the mirror. A clothing rack sits off to the side.

Harry motions toward the curtained area. “Is this me?”

“Yes,” Simon affirms. “Feel free to set up as you wish. When you’re ready, I’ll come take a look at the outfits you’ve chosen.”

Harry nods. Liam follows him to the wardrobe area carrying the remaining garment bags.

When Louis arrives, it’s eight o’clock and Simon has given Harry’s wardrobe selections a dispassionate nod of approval and the room has filled with photographers and light designers and various team members and assistants and it smells of coffee and cologne and the mechanical sounds of set construction mingle with the low murmur of polite conversation. When the door opens, the room ripples with one collectively held breath. 

Harry feels it before he sees it. The energy in the room shifts, as if the air were charged with electricity. He turns and watches along with the rest of the room as Louis walks through the front door. 

Louis offers everyone a closed-mouthed grin, his eyes crinkling. He runs a hand across his forehead to adjust his fringe. “Morning,” he chirps, voice soft with sleep.

The room is filled with the murmur of “morning”s and “how are you”s. Louis notices Harry across the room, and everyone follows his gaze as he throws him an excited wave. Harry grins and waves back, and Louis holds up one finger, mouthing, “One second.”

While he waits, Harry sorts through the clothing rack again, double checking that the jackets are with the jackets and the tanks are with the tanks and the—

“Hey there, Styles the Stylist.”

Harry straightens up, turning around to find Louis standing inches behind him. “Morning, Louis. Or—” Harry glances warily around him, worried someone may be displeased with his lack of formality. “Mr. Tomlinson?”

Louis shakes his head. “Louis. Don’t worry about it.”

“Louis,” Harry grins. “Let me introduce you to my assistant, he’s over—”

“Actually, I wondered if I could speak with you alone for a minute.”

“Oh, okay, sure, yeah. These—these curtains—” Harry stretches over the clothing rack to pull the curtain toward him. “These curtains close. Here, let me just—there.”

With the curtains closed, Harry takes a seat at the work table, and Louis sits down across from him, pulling one knee up to his chest. 

“So, about the bar the other night.”

Harry feels slightly breathless. He swallows a lump of anxiety that swells in his throat. He nods, urging Louis to go on.

“I guess I just want to make sure that you didn’t get the wrong idea.”

Harry fiddles with a hanger that lies on the floor, kicking it lightly with the toe of his boot. “Wrong idea about what?”

“I don’t know,” Louis shrugs. He gestures to the space between them. “This. I don’t want you to feel like I was hitting on you by asking you out for drinks.”

 _Hitting on him?_ Harry feels slightly dizzy from the effort he expends resisting the temptation to analyse the implications of what Louis is telling him.

_It’s all just rumours, but it would explain the rigid image control._

Harry kicks the hanger away.

“Oh yeah, of course. I didn’t get that impression.”

“You didn’t?” Louis asks, leaning forward slightly in his chair.

Harry shakes his head. “No, not at all. I just thought you were being generous. Which it was.” He clears his throat. “Very generous.”

“Great,” Louis grins. “I had a good time. You’re alright, Styles the Stylist.”

“I had a good time, too,” Harry says, as if it’s the most simple thing in the world. And maybe it is simple. Or, it can be. Because Louis is good company and his employment is good money and any other complicating factors like sexuality and closets are minor trivialities.

Harry smiles like he believes it, and Louis smiles back like it’s what he was made to do.

“So,” Louis says, clapping his hands together. “What have you got for me?”

Harry jumps down from his chair, wiggling his eyebrows as he says, “I have got a ‘relatable party boy’ treasure trove. Step into my office, where the magic happens.”

Harry pulls a boldly patterned Adidas jacket from the clothing rack. “Look number one. This will be paired with—”

Louis snatches the jacket from Harry’s hand, holding it up in front of him. “What _colour_ is this?” he interrupts, his voice shooting up in pitch. “And what is ‘ _relatable_ ’ about this godawful pattern?”

“That one was Simon’s favourite,” Harry smirks.

Louis snorts loudly, and returns the jacket to the rack. “Figures.”

“Are you ruling that one out?”

“No,” Louis says with a shrug and a flick of his fringe. “Not yet. Next.”

Next, Harry selects a solid navy jacket with a single white stripe across the top.

“Okay, yeah, this one I dig.” Louis holds the jacket to his chest, one hand on his hip. 

Harry wrinkles his nose. “That one?”

“Yeah, _this one_. Not everyone likes to wear flashy floral jackets like _yours_ , Mr. Styles the Stylist.”

“What’s your issue with patterns?” Harry taunts.

“I don’t have an issue with patterns, I like stripes,” Louis whines, and oh, god. Harry barely keeps from rolling his eyes. Such poor taste, but so endearing.

“Well,” Harry says, “at least we know there’s one thing here you like.”

Louis groans, throwing his body dramatically over the back of the chair. “No offense, Harry, honestly, but these are the _worst_.”

Harry chuckles, replacing the navy jacket on the clothing rack and sitting down beside Louis. He wonders momentarily what Louis is _doing_ , being a pop star and all. He remembers skimming tabloid articles that popped up on his Twitter feed claiming that Louis Tomlinson, womanizer, slept with 350 women _this year alone_ and that Louis Tomlinson, arrogant rich kid, spends all his money on fancy cocktails in high-class clubs and never leaves alone afterward. For a wild moment, with Louis beside him draped over his chair, defeated, Harry believes that the tabloids had it wrong. He recklessly believes that Louis' hands are open to others more than they are closed and that his heart means more than just a night.

“What would you wear today, if you could choose anything you wanted?” Harry asks.

“We won’t find out, will we?” Louis replies. 

He smiles while he says it, and Harry doesn’t say anything, but the non-answer hangs thick in the air. 

Harry thinks about Simon and about manipulation and control. He thinks about Louis' bright and bouncy energy and about vibrant colour. He wonders who the first person was to tell Louis he was too much, to ask Louis to tone himself down. And he wonders whether, by knowingly dressing Louis down, he is any different than that person.

He swallows around a thousand “I'm sorry”s as he pulls a third outfit from the rack.

* * * * *

“Haven’t you ever heard of pheromones? They’re _sexy_.”

Liam pulls his face away from Harry’s shirt to squint at him. “Phero- _what_?” he yells, his voice barely carrying over the pulsing music of the club.

“Pheromones,” Harry repeats. He pulls a thin black straw into his mouth, sucking in a mouthful of his caipirinha. “It’s another word for ‘sexy man stink.’”

Louis, who is standing to Harry’s left, swaying his hips to the music, snorts into his glass. “Did you just say ‘sexy man stink’?”

“No, listen. Pheromones, they're like, in your sweat. It's a real thing.”

As Harry attempts to explain himself, he briefly wonders how, in fact, he was transplanted from New York City to a photoshoot afterparty in a crowded club in London discussing the biology—or was it chemistry?—of sexual attraction with his brand new employer in less than seventy-two hours.

Louis is chuckling, shaking his head as he leans on his elbows against the bar, and Liam is pressing his fingers into his temples.

“No, mate,” Liam groans. “You just stink. That’s all I was saying.”

“I don't know,” Louis says. He runs his fingertips along the rim of his glass, tipping his head sideways. “Harry seems like an intelligent bloke. Maybe he’s right.”

Louis' sideways grin is making Harry feel like he probably should order another drink. Fast. 

Louis tosses back the rest of his own drink, slamming the glass back down on the bar. 

“Flirt with me.”

“What?”

“Yeah, come on.” Louis turns in his seat to face Harry. “Pretend I’m just a random person and you’re trying to pick me up. Show me the sexy man stink in action.”

Harry groans, covering his face with his hands. “Oh, my god. Please stop saying sexy man stink. I’ve never regretted three words more.”

Louis laughs, twirling his straw between his fingers. “Don’t worry, mate,” he grins. “I won’t forget.”

“Can we just dance? Let’s just—Liam, let’s go dance.”

“You know...” Louis drawls. He inserts the straw between his teeth, his body forming an ‘S’ shape as he leans one hip against the bar. “You’d think all these sheer shirts,” he continues, waving his hand in front of Harry’s torso, “would wick away the man stink. Don’t you think?”

“Ugh,” Harry groans loudly, throwing his hands in the air.

“Oh, not the shirts,” he hears Liam mutter from behind him as he storms out onto the dance floor.

Harry wobbles pleasantly on his feet as he makes his way into the centre of the crowded room. The air is thick with smoke and body heat, and strobe lights illuminate the crowd of bodies grinding and cheering and joyously spilling drinks on one another. His heartbeat thunders in his ears as he begins to sway his hips to the rhythmic throb of a Beyonce remix.

“You’re a shit dancer,” comes a familiar voice from behind him. Harry feels the exhalation on his neck before he registers the words, but when he turns around, Louis is grinning just a breath away from his face.

Harry pushes Louis back with his fingertips, chuckling. “Shut the fuck up.”

Louis is holding his drink by his head between two dainty fingers, the rest of his hand splayed out in the air. He twists his torso, his narrow waist lengthening as he swings his hips from side to side. 

“I love this song.”

“You’re so lucky you get to do this all the time,” Harry marvels. He reaches for Louis' drink to steal a sip, but Louis lets him take the glass. Harry tips it back, swallowing a mouthful of foul, foul liquid. He scrunches up his nose, pressing it back into Louis' chest and coughing, “What _is_ that?”

“Rum and coke. Heavy on the rum.” Louis shrugs. “I knew you looked like the type to sip fruity concoctions and pull funny faces between each sip.”

“That's so unfair,” Harry starts to say, and Louis is laughing like he’d never imagined anything funnier but he stops short when a large hand snakes around his waist. His eyes widen almost imperceptibly.

“Whoa,” Harry mumbles, searching for a cue in Louis' expression.

“Hey, there, gorgeous,” comes a rough voice. A tall, muscular man with a close-cropped blonde haircut is leaned over Louis, whispering into his ear. “Been watching you all night.”

Louis pushes the blonde's hand away, his body noticeably rigid.

“Ah, _that’s_ not creepy. See something you like?”

The blonde groans, his eyes fluttering closed. “Yeah, babe.” He tries to get handsy again, reaching out for Louis’ hips with both hands, but Louis dodges his groping fingers.

Harry scans the crowd, sweeping his eyes from left to right. _Where is Liam?_

Louis turns to face the man, walking his fingers up the man's chest. 

“Well, how about I tell you something?” Louis hums coyly.

“Yeah, tell me.” The man is practically _panting_ and honestly, Harry can feel his cheeks burning with second-hand embarrassment, but what is Louis _doing_?

“Hey,” the man hesitates, squinting his eyes. “You kinda look like—you know Louis Tomlinson? The singer? You kinda—you look—”

“Yeah,” Louis smiles stiffly. “Get that from time to time. But hey, my friend.” He trails his hand back down across the blonde's chest. “Tonight's not your night.” He gives his hand a slight push, pressing the man backward.

“What the fuck?”

“Sorry, mate,” Louis says, turning to walk back to where Harry's standing.

“What the fuck was that?” The man balls his fists up at his sides, taking steps toward Louis again.

“Hey,” Harry snaps, his voice starting to rise in volume. “Calm the fuck down!”

The man stares Harry down, his face an angry shade of red. “Who the bloody hell are you?” He man turns to Louis. “This your boyfriend? ‘S that what this is about?”

Harry takes a step forward. “Yeah, I’m his bloody boyfriend, so stay the fuck away from him. Go harass someone else.”

“Fucking queers, both of you,” the blonde spits.

When he’s gone, Harry and Louis both attempt to speak at the same time.

“I’m sorry I said—”

“I don’t think I’ve heard—”

“Oh, sorry,” Harry says quickly, shaking his hands in Louis’ direction. “You go first.”

Louis shakes his head. “I was just going to say I don’t think I’ve heard you swear so much in such a short period of time.”

Harry laughs. “You obviously haven’t known me long enough. Sorry I said I was your boyfriend.”

“No problem,” Louis grins, sharp and electric in the lights.

They stand like that for a while, music and heartbeats and the shaking of the floor vibrating around them. Harry bobs his head slightly, tendrils of awkwardness making him aware of...everything. Louis stands still, his empty glass dangling from his fingers where his hand lies limp at his side.

“I have to go home with a girl tonight,” he says suddenly.

“What?” Harry asks, taken aback. “What do you mean _have_ to?”

“Like, I have to.” Louis' vibrant, life-sized energy dwindles in front of Harry's eyes. “Paps are waiting outside for me to leave. The team hired a girl. She’s meeting me in an hour and we’ll walk out together.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, fuck Simon, right? It's just a headline or two. Right?”

Louis shrugs. He busies himself with the examination of his glass. The air hangs thick with things unspoken, an undercurrent of tension making it slightly difficult to breathe.

“My little sister asked my mum today what the word ‘womanizer’ meant.”

Harry feels like his throat is coated with cotton.

“Did she see that in—?”

Louis nods. “Yeah.”

“Louis, I'm—” Harry's shoulders drop. “I’m so—”

“Nah,” Louis waves his hand dismissively. “Fuck Simon. Yeah? I need a shot.” His tone is lifeless, dull to Harry’s ears.

As Harry follows Louis back to the bar, he watches the way his bones ripple under the fabric of his shirt as he moves. He’s struck by how delicate Louis appears in the rare moments when he is decidedly not the centre of attention, when he is blissfully relieved of the duty of being Louis Tomlinson, life of the party. 

Harry wonders if you can be protective of someone you've only known three days.

He throws his head back and screams.

“London!”

He screams it to the sky and to the drunk, celebrating crowd and to Louis and to Niall who is far from Harry for the first time in years and to the blonde man who didn't give a shit about Louis. When he’s done screaming, his voice cracks, and he thinks there are way too many people in this world who don't give a shit.

* * * * *

It’s the middle of November and it’s the kind of chilly that is invigorating with a sweater but just plain cold without.

Harry knows this because Liam is sitting across from him at the table outside the coffee shop, happily covered in a layer of wool, and Harry’s exposed skin is prickled with goosebumps. It feels like a rude joke, a cruel metaphor for their relationship, both at work and out of it—with Liam prepared for the weather and Harry sorely underprepared. 

Harry grips his latte with both hands, savoring the warmth between his palms. It’s a Friday morning that came gently, and he and Liam are discussing such important things as the most embarrassing movie scenes they’ve wanked to.

“That's not embarrassing enough,” Liam whines. “Everyone's wanked while watching ‘The Notebook’, come _on_.”

“Alright, alright,” Harry sighs. He taps his thumb on the rim of his coffee cup. “Oh, okay, here's another one. ‘Notting Hill.’”

“ _Harry_ ,” Liam groans. “Do you not understand the meaning of the word ‘embarrassing’? I just told you I wanked to Tarzan twice, and—oh.” He glances around them, tossing a wave to a middle aged woman gawking at them from the next table. He lowers his voice, leaning in across the table. “I told you about my Tarzan thing and the best you can do is ‘Notting Hill’?”

“I didn't say which scene.”

“Oh.” Liam leans back in his chair. “Which scene then?”

“You know the scene where they're at dinner and they overhear some guys around the corner talking shit about her?”

“And she says they have dicks the size of peanuts?”

Harry laughs, nodding enthusiastically. “That's the one.”

“Ew, why the—?”

Harry shrugs. “Douchebags getting served justice by Julia Roberts. Gets me hard every time. Especially the drooling Hugh Grant in the background.”

“You're disgusting,” Liam shudders.

“Do you feel better about the Tarzan incident?”

“Incidents,” Liam corrects him. “And yes. Thank you.”

“You're welcome,” Harry chuckles.

His phone begins to buzz on the table. He picks it up, swiping his finger across the screen and lifting it up to his ear. “Hello?”

“Hello, Harry. How are you this morning? I hope you’ve enjoyed your week off.”

“Yes, thank you.” Harry leans forward, cupping his hand over the receiver to mouth “Simon” in response to Liam’s quizzical look. Liam pulls a pinched face.

“Listen, I was wondering if you might be available for a bit of a...last minute task today.”

“What task is that?”

Simon clears his throat. “Mr. Tomlinson will be photographed on a lunch outing this afternoon, and we were hoping that you might be available to style him for that outing.”

Harry imagines the articles in which the photos will be used, and the captions that will be inscribed below them like an inside joke no one let Louis in on. “What are you looking for?”

“Any of the tour announcement outfits will suffice,” Simon replies. “I realise it’s quite last minute, so just do the best you can.”

Harry pulls the phone from his ear, pressing the ‘speaker’ button and tapping the screen to open his contact list.

“Can I be provided with Mr. Tomlinson’s contact information so that we can determine a meeting place?”

“Oh, yes, naturally.” The sound of rustling papers filters through the speakerphone. “I was under the impression you had been provided that information already. I might suggest you meet Mr. Tomlinson at his home, but I will let you work that out. I have his phone number here. Are you ready?”

Harry presses the plus sign at the top right of the screen. “I’m ready.”

As Simon lists off the series of numbers, Harry copies them into the text box. Under the name section, he types Louis' full name. Then he deletes the last name. Louis would want to be just Louis.

“Thank you,” Harry says when he’s finished, returning the phone to his ear. His voice is clipped and formal. “I will be in touch.”

“Excellent,” Simon returns. “Happy as always to have you on the team, Mr. Styles.”

Harry swallows an overflow of questionable responses and settles on a simple “Thank you.”

When he hangs up, he places his phone face down on the table and takes a swig of his latte, wrinkling his nose at the sweet liquid that has grown cold.

With his elbows spread on the table, Harry asks, “Do you remember where we put those outfits for Louis' tour photoshoot?”

Liam’s eyes dart upward, squinting slightly. “I think—aren’t those still in the garment bags in the car?”

Harry nods. “Probably.”

“Do you need them for today?” Liam asks.

Harry nods again as he stuffs his keys and his phone into his pocket. “Lunch outing with paps.”

When Harry reaches the car, he shuffles through the garment bags until he finds the jacket he’s looking for, quickly tucking it into a bag which he labels with Louis' name. It sits beside him on the passenger seat as he drives to Louis' house.

He chooses the navy jacket with the white stripe across the top—the one item in all of the twelve outfits that Louis liked—and he does the best he can.

* * * * *

When Harry pulls into the drive later that afternoon, Louis is standing in the doorway with a grin wide enough to split his face and two hands full of Chinese takeaway.

“Thought Chinese might make it all better.” Louis shrugs his shoulders, his voice bright. “Usually does the trick for me.”

Harry jumps out of the car, slamming the door behind him. “God, hey. Hi. How was your trip?” He bounds up the walkway to stand, beaming and breathless, beside Louis. “Fuck, that smells good.”

As Harry thumbs through the bag Louis holds in his left hand, Louis gently swats the back of Harry’s head. “I was only gone a week, mate, not a year.”

Harry realises in a moment of private clarity that this is the first time he’s seen Louis as, well, Louis. His hair is feathery and sticks out in at least seven directions, and a thin jumper clings to his shoulders as it drapes across his collarbones. He looks vulnerable, but assuredly so, and, apparently, he still speaks with a carelessness that shows he’s important but makes it look effortless.

“Well? How did you like sunny Los Angeles?” Harry asks, lowering the pitch of his voice with a dramatic flourish.

“The trip was all business, young Harry, no pleasure,” Louis taunts. “Well, there was some. Pleasure.” He wiggles his eyebrows. “If you know what I mean.”

Harry elbows him in the stomach, giggling. “You would.”

“It’s true,” Louis says solemnly. “The blokes are much hotter.”

Harry laughs, brushing past Louis to open the door. “Can we eat? Please? It’s past my lunchtime.”

It isn’t until after Harry helps himself inside and spreads the cartons of takeaway across the table, shovels forkfuls of lo mein into his mouth and spews pieces of chewed noodles every which way as he pulls the jacket and matching jeans from the garment bags, attempts to fix Louis' hair for him ( _“I survived twenty-three years with good hair before I met you, Harry, now fuck off.”_ ), fails to convince Louis to wear his glasses ( _“Black frames with a navy jacket? I thought you were better than that, truly.”_ ), and sends Louis out the door for his pap shots right after stealing the last dumpling directly from his plate that Harry realises—Louis said blokes. 

The _blokes_ are much hotter.

It’s a word that takes Louis a split second to say, but it takes Harry months to determine its significance.

* * * * *

Weeks pass and they fall gently, gracefully into step.

On days when photoshoots or public appearances are scheduled, Harry wakes up early in the morning, Liam brings three coffee cups instead of two, and Louis starts to nap on the couch in the dressing room instead of his break room. The dressing room smells faintly of cigarette smoke and Louis' hair gel, despite the fact that Louis has his hair done by Lou Teasdale, the hair stylist, in the next room over, and Harry lives for the eye roll he gets when he makes twisted faces at Louis from behind the camera.

On days off, Harry and Liam spend the afternoons wardrobe shopping, and Harry carries Louis around on speakerphone. Harry does his best to describe the ugly pieces that Liam points and laughs at, and Louis asks important questions like what character from “Friends” does Harry think he’s most like and what should he order for dinner. Harry tells him he should make something homemade instead because it’s healthier that way, and on the way home, he stops at the coffee shop, where he orders the cappuccino creation Louis loves and always lets Harry steal sips of. 

One night, after a day when late November had begun to taste like December, while Harry is in his flat sipping on tea, flipping through the latest issue of “Vogue” and wondering if he could convince Simon to approve a cashmere Hermes sweater for Louis' appearance on James Corden, Louis calls. 

His name lights up on Harry’s screen.

“Hey, Lou.”

“Hey. I’m sorry it’s so late.”

“It’s okay,” Harry reassures him, flipping the magazine shut and placing it beside him on the couch. “Was just reading for a bit. What’s up?”

From the other end, he hears Louis pull in a ragged breath.

“Louis?”

“I’m sorry, I just—I feel so—I didn’t know who else to call,” Louis chokes out.

Worry curls in Harry's stomach. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Silence lingers for a beat, and Harry imagines Louis swallowing and pushing his fringe aside with the backs of his fingers. Then the words begin to fall from his mouth, sliding over one another on the way out.

“Most of the time I’m okay with this. I mean, it’s a fucked up mess, and it’s fucked up that my little sister has to read about me being some—some kind of womanizer, but it’s _temporary_. They’ll sell their papers and I’ll sell my albums and people will have their fun gossiping and then life will go on. Because there will be bigger news than who I bring to bed with me and because people _forget_. But then things like _this_ happen and it’s not just me getting screwed over and it’s not just— _fuck_ , Harry, it’s not just me getting hurt by this.”

“Louis—”

“And honestly, fuck Simon for implying I don’t work hard enough. I work my _arse_ off and I have nothing to show for it, I have nothing—” Louis is cut off by a violent sob.

“Louis—Louis, hey. Just breathe.”

Again, Harry hears his jagged breathing.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks, softening his voice to a gentle murmur.

“Yeah,” Louis replies after a beat. “Sorry for going off.”

“Hey, Lou, come on, don’t apologise,” he says firmly. “Hey, you know what, why don’t I come over and you can go off as much as you’d like?”

Louis hesitates, seems to think for a moment. “Actually, could I come over yours? I need to get out of this house.”

Harry tells him he absolutely can, and he makes a second cup of tea for Louis while he waits. He pulls an extra blanket from the closet at the end of the hallway and drapes it across the back of the couch.

When Louis lets himself through the front door twenty minutes later, his eyes are rimmed with red and his shoulders hang heavy and weary.

Harry knows when to ask questions and when to wait gently. So he just says, “I made you some tea.”

Louis smiles weakly, accepting the mug from Harry and blowing steam across the rim. He hums his thanks and sinks into the couch, curled into himself. After taking Louis' coat and hanging it by the door, Harry sits beside him, tucking one leg under the other.

They sip the sweet liquid, glancing around the room through clouds of cinnamon-laced steam. The silence, like tea, is smooth and warm, and there’s something sweet and intimate in it.

When Louis begins to breathe rhythmically again, he shifts in his seat. “Do you know Believe in Magic?”

“The children’s charity?” Harry clarifies.

Louis nods, his eyebrows furrowing. “It means a lot to me. I never—I’ve never lost anyone young like them. But when I look at them, those little kids, I—” Louis catches a tear from his right eye before it has a chance to slide down his cheek. “I see my sisters.”

Harry nods. He could move his hand mere centimetres and rest it on Louis', but he places it in his lap instead.

“And I think, they don’t get a chance, you know? I’ve had more of a chance at life than any of them ever will, and I—I’ve _wasted_ it.”

“Louis, no, you haven’t wasted anything. You’re doing what you love, that’s—”

“Am I?” Louis cuts him off.

Harry stares blankly, and words fail him.

“I love to sing, Harry. But when was the last time this job had anything to do with singing?”

Louis places his mug on the floor in front of his feet, resting his hands in his lap. His palms face upward, open, empty, as if to say ‘I have nothing left.’ He doesn't break the silence with it, but Harry hears him. 

“Every year around Christmas time, Believe in Magic hosts a giant charity ball. It’s a big deal, too.” Louis gestures with his hands as he speaks, his voice picking up speed. “They get a lot of donations from it, through auctions and stuff, and celebrities make appearances, which obviously gets a lot of press.”

“Christmas time?” Harry asks, hesitant due to Louis’ abrupt change in affect. “That’s in, like, a month.”

“Exactly. I thought, how amazing would that be, to be there this year? So I mentioned it to the team, sort of asked for the day off, you know?”

“Right.”

“And Simon said I am not to attend under any circumstances.” Louis places finger quotes around the end of his sentence, then drops his hands, limp and defeated, to his sides.

“He— _what_?”

“He said no.”

Harry blinks, shaking his head. “Why would he—?”

“It’s about the image now, Harry. I have an image that I am contractually bound to push.” Louis spits the words out, but his vehemence is marred by the tiredness in his voice.

“What, and Louis Tomlinson the popstar can’t have a good _heart_?” Harry says roughly.

Louis' shoulders heave as he forces a response. “This isn’t just about me anymore, though. This is about the _kids_. Think of the all the press coverage there would be if I went, think of all the new donors. Think what my fans could _do_ for Believe in Magic.” Louis is trembling now, the volume of his voice increasing with each word. “They’re so dedicated, Harry, they’re so dedicated and these kids need hope so badly and I can scream it and scream it and _scream it_ —” he sobs, pounding his fist on his knee with each beat, “but if my team has me muted, there’s no one to hear.”

Harry’s fight drains out of him at the sight of Louis beating himself up, and he reaches out, placing a palm on Louis' back. He rubs gently back and forth, whispering “I hear you, I hear you,” over and over again. Eventually, the fight empties out of Louis too.

“All of this,” Louis says, his voice brittle, “Is it because I don’t work hard enough?”

“What—? Louis, no.” Harry blurts before asking, “All of _what_?”

“The image control. Simon said it’s supplementary, said it’s to make up for what I don’t do myself. Like, I can’t sell enough albums myself.”

“That’s bullshit,” Harry cries. “That’s complete _bullshit_. You work harder than anyone I’ve ever met. Simon is scared. He’s trying to justify his pushing you so hard, and he’s hoping to drag you down in the process. Lou, _please_ don’t let him do that to you.”

Louis looks at Harry, studying his face, and a tear spills out of the corner of one eye. Harry’s hand twitches with the urge to wipe it away with his thumb. Louis’ eyes are the colour of stormy waves.

“When was the last time you did something that _you_ wanted to do?” Harry asks gently.

Louis shrugs, looking away. “I don’t know. Not much I want, really. I don’t think.”

And Harry doesn’t think that Louis sounds like the kind of person who can’t find anything in the world worth wanting. He thinks he sounds like someone who has been told a thousand times that whatever he wants, he isn’t worth receiving.

“Okay.” Harry lets go of Louis then, and he rubs his hands together to rid himself of the sudden feeling of emptiness between them. He straightens up, smiling. “Grab your coat. I want to show you something.”

* * * * *

“Harry, why did you take me to the Golden Jubilee Bridges? I’ve been here a thousand times.”

Harry grins.

“You haven’t been where I’m taking you.”

In front of them, the vast bridges stretch to reach across the Thames, their pylons thrust toward the sky like the heads of spears. Below, the gentle water catches the lights from the buildings on shore and sends it out in glittering diamond ripples.

“Did you know this bridge was the scene of a violent murder in 1999?”

“Good thing we’re not going up there, then,” Harry winks, limbs swinging in the sharp night air.

Bypassing the wide staircase leading up to the footbridge, Harry leads Louis under the bridge where it stretches across the motorway. The motorway, which during the day bustles with cars traveling back to back in a frenzy of traffic, is empty now, and they cross against the traffic lights, running with wild laughter bubbling from their lips.

Across the motorway, set back into the embankment, a brick wall separates the pavement from the river on the other side. A narrow set of uneven stone steps is nestled between the wall and the embankment, and Harry hurries down, motioning for Louis to follow.

“What is this place?” Louis' voice is a low, raspy whisper, as if the silence that encircles them is too precious to disrupt. He’s looking out across the water, and at the underbelly of the bridge that looms above them.

“My favourite place in the world.”

“It’s damp and smells like a muddy arsehole.”

Harry chuckles, one hand digging in the pocket of his trousers. “Look behind you.”

“I can’t see a _thing_ behind me, Harry.”

Harry flicks on the flashlight he pocketed on the way out of his flat, bathing the brick wall behind them in light. Moss lines the bottom where the water climbs up the embankment after it rains. 

Louis blinks. “Wow,” he exhales. “Wh—what is all this?”

Louis reaches out to brush the surface with his fingers. Across the brick—some carved, some spray-painted, some scribbled in Sharpie—are words. Lines of poems, bits of song lyrics, and other unfamiliar words, all scrawled across the weather-worn brick; declarations of love, refrains of hope, despair softened by the rhythm of a haiku.

“This is where I come when I need to be reminded of humanity.”

Mesmerized, Louis draws one finger across the rough brick, tracing a line that reads “ _we stayed up all night_.” It’s dated nearly two and a half years ago.

“What do you mean?”

“The industry, it takes something from you. From everyone,” Harry explains. “It makes monsters of some, and heroes of others. The monsters steal and bully, and the heroes pretend to be immune. But here…” He trails off, pressing a thumb to the corner of one inscription, written in black marker. 

_I am a brilliant sunrise and you prefer to sleep in._

“Here, it’s so raw. So...human. To stand in a place where hearts come to break.”

“ _I am changing more than I am staying the same_ ,” Louis reads aloud, tracing the inscription with his fingertips. His voice is quiet, reverent.

Harry nods. Breathes. He exhales heavily, rising onto the balls of his feet. 

“I first found this place a few years ago, and since then, a lot of the words have worn off. Isn’t it strange?”

“Isn’t what strange?” Louis asks, turning to face him. Everything about him is soft and catches the moonlight just so, and Harry can’t tear his eyes away.

“Time.” he replies after a few heartbeats. “The way things change even when we’re not there to watch it. If I wrote something here and never came back, it could stay forever or it could fade within months. Someone could stumble across this wall in five years while they’re drunk and trying to escape the rain and see what I wrote when my mum passed away and they would know, but I never would.”

_All part of the story._

“Your mum died?”

“Yeah. Four years ago,” Harry breathes, and it comes easily as if it's not the first time mentioning it to anyone in years. 

In the hush of the night, Louis reminds Harry less of the brilliance of the noon-time sun and more of the wistful glow of the moon.

_Be more observant._

“She’d be proud of you, you know.”

“You think so?” Harry murmurs.

“I do.”

“How come?”

Louis exhales, and a cloud of condensation hangs tenderly in front of his mouth. He pushes one hand back over his hair and rests it behind his head. 

“You said earlier that I’m making the most of my life because I’m doing what I love, but _you’re_ the one who’s living their dreams, here. You’re unapologetic. You wear stupid jackets with busy patterns and you drink girly cocktails and you would intelligently, politely, and tactfully _fuck up_ any person who questions you for that.” Louis drops his shoulders, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. “Not all of us could say that.”

Harry studies the way Louis' eyelashes cast fluttering shadows across the tops of his cheeks. “Do you ever regret it?”

Louis' eyes glitter in the dim light as he lifts his gaze to make eye contact, and Harry’s breath catches in his throat.

“Regret what?”

“All this.” Harry makes a wide sweeping gesture with his arm. “Fame.”

Louis shakes his head slowly. “I wouldn’t say regret. I regret hurting people. I regret times I’ve taken what wasn’t mine and times I’ve been insensitive to people I love. I regret things that I’ve done, but I don’t think you can regret things that just happen to you.”

Harry watches as Louis trails his fingers along another set of words etched into the brick.

_I am not a riddle to be solved._

He slides his back down the wall, landing on the ground and pulling his knees into his chest. Louis follows, his legs flung out wide in front of him. Their hips are touching, and their arms, and Harry’s skin burns at the points of contact, even through the layers of fabric between them.

“Sometimes things that just happen to you can be good things.” Harry’s voice is a whisper now, and Louis leans in closer to hear. 

“They can,” Louis agrees. “I like to think, though, that when I look back on my life, the best things will have been things I chose for myself.”

“Be your own hero, huh?” Harry props his chin on his knee, looking up to smile gently at Louis.

“No. No, not quite that.” Louis is quiet for a moment, and Harry can see him turning a thought over in his mind, examining its every curve and corner. Then, he adds, “I just don’t want to be someone who simply lets life happen to me. For better or for worse. Not enough people take ownership of their lives. They romanticize it, call it fate. Or they curse it, call it bad luck. I just want to know that my life is a life I chose.”

Harry pulls on his bottom lip, his brows furrowing.

“Do you think it is right now? What you chose?”

Louis draws his legs back then, toward his body, closing his eyes and exhaling wearily.

“I don’t know,” he admits finally. He rubs his thumb in circles on his thigh, eyes fixed downward, and swallows hard. “That’s what scares me.”

Harry turns his head to the side, scanning the writing on the wall, looking for inscriptions he’s never seen before. Just above his right shoulder, in white paint, is a quote.

_We agreed to love each other madly._

Jack Kerouac, Harry recognizes. On the Road. One of his favourites. His chest burns as he remembers his favourite quote from the novel. He watches Louis, gazing across the river, his eyes red-rimmed with emotion and exhaustion, as the words flash across his memory.

_“The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time…”_

Once, Louis had called Harry just to tell him that he learned of a word to describe the agonizing frustration of being trapped in only one body that can only occupy one place at a time. Onism, he said, was the word. Harry had confessed that he had never felt onism before, but when they’d hung up, Harry had written it down because he had always felt that there was something about Louis that was too big and too bright for the tiny people and the tiny world that surrounded him.

_“...the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars.”_

Beside him, Louis burns, burns, burns, and time is frozen.

* * * * *

“Could you please hold still and stop shaking your arse in my face?”

Louis cackles, placing his hands on his knees to wiggle his bum backwards.

“Knock it _off_ , Louis, I’m trying to hem your shirt, for god’s sake _hold still_.”

“Fine, fine,” giggles Louis. He straightens his posture, clasping his hands together in front of him. “Better?”

“Better. Thank you. Move again and I’ll stick you with this needle. Your choice.”

“Why does the shirt need hemming anyway?”

Harry sighs, exasperated. “The fact that I am hired to keep your wardrobe in order should preclude the need for me to even _answer_ questions like that. But, since you’re such a pest—”

“Persistent,” Louis interrupts. “I prefer persistent.”

“Since you’re such a _pest_ , I’ll humour you. The shirt looks baggy and ridiculous and that’s why I’m hemming it.”

“ _You’re_ baggy and ridiculous.” Louis is standing with his hands on his hips, and he actually stomps his foot, the retort lightning-quick off his tongue.

“Alright.” Harry stands up from the chair, tucking his needle and thread back into his sewing kit. “You’re free.”

Louis stares in the mirror, rolling his shoulders and pulling on the hem of his shirt, adjusting its fit on his body. He leans forward, tousling his hair, then pushes his fringe off his forehead.

“How was the party last night?” 

“Oh, Janet’s thing?” Louis turns to the side, glancing at his arse in the mirror. “Met someone. Or so I thought. In hindsight, I think I just had one too many drinks.”

Harry clears his throat. “Met someone?”

“Yeah.” Louis shrugs, then turns around to face Harry, leaning back on the bar with his arms folded. “Briefly. Not an overnight thing. They approached me, they were fit and had a dirty mouth, I was drunk and had willing ears. You know how people in clubs are.”

“Mmm,” Harry agrees. “People.”

“People,” Louis echoes, popping the ‘p’ sounds.

Harry feels himself getting squirmy, like he needs to do something with his hands, so he pulls the box of jeans across the floor and begins to fold them. 

“So Janet Jackson, hm? What’s she like, anyway?”

Louis drags a chair over, straddling it backwards. “Loves pink drinks with little umbrellas and dances like a maniac with a raging zest for life.” He grins a wide, manic grin. “You’d love her.”

“Sounds like it. Can’t believe you went to Janet Jackson’s holiday party.” Harry is chuckling as he tucks another pair of jeans into their box. Louis just shrugs his shoulders, so Harry asks, “You nervous for today?”

“Nervous for what?”

“The taping.”

“Mmm.” Louis rests his chin on the back of the chair. “Nervous I won’t know what to say? Nah. I’ve been on Corden before, and James is practically a buddy of mine by now. Besides, not like it’s live.”

“But?”

“Well. Nervous I’ll forget my lines? A bit, yeah.”

Harry raises his eyebrows. “Your lines? Is the team telling you what to say?”

Louis chuckles, raising his hands above his head, then dropping them back down to his sides. 

“Of course they are. I’m just a normal lad, would be more than willing to date a fan, favourite hobbies include video games and smoking weed, but I’m only to hint at that one. Pass it off as a joke, yeah?”

“I mean, that’s…”

“ _Oh_! And I sleep on the tour bus. Did you know that? Love the tour bus. And video games. And video games on the tour bus.” Louis is counting each item off on his fingers.

“You have a tour bus?”

“Not at all,” Louis laughs, shaking his head.

Harry places the last pair of jeans in the box, and snaps the lid on. He kicks his feet up to rest them on top of the box, folding his hands loosely in his lap.

“Louis,” he starts off slowly. “I know it’s not my place to say. But...hear me out.” He takes Louis' silence as permission to continue, so he does. “You have influence. You have _power_ over people. You could change this, I bet you could, if you wanted to. Don’t you want—”

“I try not to do too much wanting, Harry.” Louis smiles, as he always does, while he says the words that rip through Harry’s heart. “It makes the now an easier place to be.”

Before Harry can breathe, and long before he can formulate an answer, Liam bursts into the room, jittery with excitement.

He’s practically bouncing on his feet as he exclaims, “Mates! You better get your arses into the other room. There’s an entire _table_ full of cakes and pies and biscuits. You’ve got to see for yourselves.” 

Louis twists in his chair to face the door. “Do they have those little shortbread things,” He holds up two fingers in the air, an inch or so between his pointer finger and thumb. “The ones with the—”

“Chocolate drizzle!” Liam exclaims, clapping his hands together, his face bursting into a grin.

“No, what about the—”

“Raspberry jelly, right?” Harry interrupts. “You like the raspberry?”

Louis grins at Harry, pleasant surprise glistening in his expression.

“Yeah. That's what I was going to say.”

Harry grins back, pushing his hair back with his hand.

“I thought so.”

Liam clears his throat from the door. “Um.” His gaze flickers back and forth from Harry to Louis, who are beaming at each other. “Right. Okay, well since you two are—I'm just gonna—”

“Wait, Liam.”

Liam is already halfway out the door, but he pauses, turning his head to glance at Harry.

“Yeah?”

“I had to hem Lou’s shirt. Could you take a look and see if it looks even to you?”

“Sure,” Liam agrees.

Harry gestures to Louis with his hands, signaling him to stand up. Louis stands, stepping sideways and away from the chair with his arms raised slightly. Harry walks behind him, reaching his arms around Louis’ waist to reach for the front hem and pull it tight, away from his body. 

He pops his head over Louis' shoulder. Louis smells like hair gel and spicy cologne.

“What do you think?”

Liam squints, leaning his head sideways.

“Mmm. Let it go now?”

Harry drops the hem and Louis lowers his arms.

Liam furrows his brow, then walks a circle around Louis, who is mimicking Liam’s solemn, focused expression.

“Looks good,” he finally declares. “Fine stitching. What shoes did you pick to go along?”

“The red Vans,” Harry replies. He gestures toward the shoe rack in the corner. “They’re still over there, though. The diva won’t put them on until the last minute.”

“I like to be free.” Louis drops back into the chair and lifts both feet in the air, wiggling his toes.

Harry wrinkles his nose, swatting Louis' feet away with the back of his hand. “Oh my god, those smell _terrible_.”

“I know,” Louis answers, and a grin splits his face.

“Why are you _proud_ to have such disgusting feet?” Harry shuffles through the rack of t-shirts. “One of these days you’re going to forget to wear shoes altogether.” 

The irony of Louis’ statement on _freedom_ isn’t lost on Harry.

He pulls a grey shirt from its hanger, holding it in front of his torso. “What if you unbuttoned your shirt and wore this underneath?”

Louis tilts his head to the side, considering. He shakes his head.

“Nah. I prefer the shirt alone.” Harry nods and replaces the shirt. “And why do you say that like it’s a bad thing?”

“If you walked into James Corden barefoot, I would be _fired_ , Louis.”

“But then who would listen to my constant bitching? That’s why you’re my best mate.”

“Wear your shoes then, princess.” Harry tosses a pair of socks at Louis, who catches them in the air with one hand.

“ _Princess_?” Louis gapes. “That’s rich, coming from the boy wearing _gold boots_.”

Three soft knocks come at the door, and a petite brunette girl in a lavender blouse and fitted black skirt pushes it open enough to slide through. 

“Mr. Tomlinson, you’re on in five.”

Her smile is sweet as Louis thanks her and she scribbles something on her clipboard. She walks back out into the hall, closing the door behind her.

Harry plucks the red Vans from the shoe rack with his thumb and pointer finger. He presses them into Louis' chest, smirking as Louis glares at him. “Don’t forget these.”

Louis takes the shoes from Harry, dropping them on the floor. “We’re not done here,” he grumbles as he slides his feet inside.

“Oh, we’re not?”

“No, we’re not.” Louis sinks to the ground to tie his shoes. “ _Princess_ , honestly...” he mutters to himself, shaking his head.

On his way out of the dressing room, Louis vows, “I’ll be back during the break,” and then he disappears into the hall.

Harry chuckles to himself, listening as Louis' footsteps fade.

“I know.”

* * * * *

A few minutes after the taping had started, Liam had wandered into the dressing room, his chin dusted with powdered sugar, and plopped down in the chair next to Harry.

At shows like this, there's always a monitor in the dressing room for the styling team to watch the taping. Harry doesn't watch from the audience because he has to be ready for touch-ups between shots, and because he's expected to clear out of the room as soon as the taping is over. With Niall, he'd always kick back and watch from his little monitor while he packed up, making mental notes of things to tease him about when he returned during the break. Today, though, he's too nervous to watch, so when Liam had asked about the monitor, he'd lied. 

“Broken,” he'd said with a wave of his hand. “Tried turning it on a minute ago.”

“Hmph,” Liam had mumbled, and then he had pulled a powdered sugar doughnut from his jacket pocket. 

When the dressing room door is flung open fifteen minutes later, Liam is standing behind Harry, his back rounding as he hunches over, twisting Harry's hair into a braid.

The door opens all the way and hits the wall beside it. Louis stands in the doorway, his chest heaving, gasping for breath.

“Harry,” he pants, “I know I'm a massive shit, but I—”

He pauses, then tilts his head to the side, eyes narrowing slightly with confusion.

“Liam, what are you—?”

Liam's hands are frozen, three sections of Harry’s hair wound around his fingers. His mouth forms a round ‘o’ shape, and his eyes bulge out slightly. “Uh.”

“You know what,” Louis waves his hands in front of him, shaking his head. “Never mind. I don't even want to know.”

Harry erupts in a fit of giggles, covering his face with his hands. Liam releases Harry's curls, shaking out the half-decent braid into which he'd managed to twist them.

“He's just,” Harry blurts out between giggles, “learning new skills. Is it break already?”

“No, I have this, um.” Louis tugs at the hem of his shirt, and Harry peels himself off of his chair to look closer. “My shirt—”

Liam cuts Louis off with a loud cough. When both Harry and Louis turn to look at him, he pats his pockets, glancing around the room.

“Oh, look at that, I'm all out of biscuits. I'll, uh—” He shrugs, then points his thumb over his shoulder toward the door. “I'll go restock.”

As he scurries out of the dressing room, he nudges Harry with his elbow, and Louis raises his eyebrows quizzically.

“What's with him?”

“I don't know, he's been weird lately.” Harry pulls his sewing kit from the work table that stretches across the front of the mirror. “What's wrong with your shirt?”

“The part you sewed came out.”

“The part I sewed.”

Louis nods. 

“Louis.”

“What?”

Harry glances up at Louis from the floor, where he's kneeling in front of him. “I hemmed the entire bottom of the shirt.”

“Okay?”

Harry holds up the section of fabric he's inspecting between his fingers for Louis to see. “How did you manage to pull out _the entire thing_?”

Louis traps his bottom lip between his front teeth, eyes wandering, his gaze landing everywhere but on Harry. “I don't know. It got caught.”

“On?”

“Harry, I go back on in five minutes.”

“Christ, alright, alright,” Harry concedes. “Hold still.”

He pulls open the zipper of his sewing kit, selecting a needle and a spool of black thread from one of the small compartments. Still kneeling in front of Louis, he pulls one end of the thread into his mouth, rolling it on his tongue. He cuts the other end with a shiny silver pair of scissors.

As Harry threads the needle, Louis shifts above him.

“Louis—”

“Oops, I'm sorry,” Louis blurts. “Am I squirming? I didn't mean to.”

“It's okay,” Harry assures him with a quiet laugh. He pokes the needle through the thin fabric, pulling it from the other side with his thumb and pointer finger. His stitches are tiny and precise, and he makes quick work, despite Louis’ shuggles above him.

Pulling the last stitch through, he ties a knot at the end and breaks the thread with his teeth.

“Okay, you're done.” Harry smiles as he zips the sewing kit closed and stands up straight on his feet. Then, he adds, “Again.”

Louis smooths the front of his shirt with his palms. “Thanks.”

“You're welcome.”

Louis hesitates, presses his lips into a thin line, then shakes his head in an almost imperceptible motion. He turns toward the door, and then:

“Harry?”

“Yeah?”

Louis opens his mouth to speak, but Harry hears the breath catch in his throat. Like a spark, the moment flashes, and then it is gone. “Nothing.”

“Are you sure?” Harry asks.

Louis nods, jerky and defensive. “Yeah.”

“Okay.” Harry leans back against the work table, his palms supporting him on either side. He clears his throat. “Is, um. Is everything going okay out there?”

Louis' face softens, and he tucks one hand into his pocket, bouncing once on the balls of his feet. “Yeah, not too bad.”

“Good.” Harry grins at Louis. He stretches out one hand, which he curls into a fist. “Now go kill the rest of that interview.”

Louis bumps Harry's fist with his own, then disappears through the doorway. His grin leaves a trail of glittering dust behind him, and his chirped “thank you” echoes like a song from the hall. 

Harry is smiling as he turns away, and when he whispers “I’m so proud of you,” he and the box of jeans are the only ones who hear.

* * * * *

**December**

“I’ll have the quinoa porridge with chopped dates and almond milk, please.”

Gemma snaps her menu closed, placing it beside her on the square wooden table.

“Certainly,” the waitress nods politely. “And for you?”

Harry drags his finger across the menu page, pointing to his brunch dish of choice.

“May I please have the tomato and avocado on rye?”

“Onion and coriander salsa with that?”

“Yes, please,” Harry grins.

The waitress holds her hand out for the menus, and Harry hands them over with a sweet “thank you” and another smile.

As the waitress turns to walk back toward the kitchen, Gemma smooths her hands over her skirt, then folds them in her lap.

“Cute place,” she says, gazing across the mostly empty dining room.

[Greenberry](http://greenberrycafe.co.uk/gallery.php) is set back on a little street in the heart of Primrose Hill. The rear wall of the cafe is lined with exposed brick, and the front is paneled with floor-to-ceiling windows. The sunlight spills in through the glass, pouring lazily over the rustic wooden tables and floor panels. A tiny orchid plant sits in a handmade pottery vase in the centre of the table, two round glasses beside it, and the wooden tabletop is bare, save for two brown parchment placemats.

“It’s my favourite,” Harry hums. “They serve the best cappuccino.”

Gemma raises an eyebrow, the right side of her mouth lifting slightly higher than the left.

“Since when do you drink cappuccino?”

She lifts her mug up to her lips to blow steam from the surface of the wild rooibos tea Harry had recommended, glancing at him from across the rim.

Harry shrugs one shoulder.

“I don’t know. Recently. A month and a half.” When Gemma narrows her eyes slightly, he adds: “Or so.”

“Mmm.” Gemma sets the mug back on the table, flattening her palm over the rim. “New job, new tastes, I guess.”

In place of an answer, Harry takes a sip of cool water from one of the glasses in the centre of the table.

“Speaking of new jobs,” Gemma continues. “How does it feel to be back in London?”

“Feels good to live in a flat again, instead of in a hotel room,” Harry replies, relaxing further back in his seat. “It’s the little things, you know? Like, I never burned candles on the road, never cooked my own meals. Missed cooking a lot.”

Gemma’s eyes widen. “Never cooked your own meals?”

“Not one.”

“For, what, six months?”

Harry chuckles. “Eight.”

“Oh my god. Are you alive?” Gemma leans across the table, reaching toward Harry to press two fingers to his neck. “Do you still have a pulse?”

Harry swats her hand away, giggling. 

“Surprisingly, yes, I did survive.”

Gemma swallows her laughter, shaking her head. Her dimples carve deep into her cheeks, just like his own, and Harry cherishes the reminders of their similarity.

“What about you?” Harry prods. “I saw one of your articles online the other day. I think someone on Twitter retweeted it. My big sis, writing for a major fashion journal,” he grins, resting his chin on his clasped hands. “So proud.”

“Ah,” Gemma shrugs, a faint rosy blush painting her cheeks. “It’s been good, yeah. The Styles siblings, taking the fashion world by storm,” she declares, lowering the pitch of her voice. She raises her water glass in time with her words, pretending to offer a toast.

“Hear, hear!” Harry laughs, meeting her glass in the air with his own.

“Mum would be so proud,” Gemma muses. 

“Remember when she used to give us those little fashion lessons every morning before school?” 

Gemma giggles, lifting her hand to catch the sound in her palm. “‘Never wear navy with black, my lovebugs,’” she mimics.

Harry shakes his head, his heart swelling pleasantly in his chest at the fond memory. “‘Clothes are inevitable,’” he begins, and Gemma chimes in to repeat in unison, “‘They are nothing less than the furniture of the mind made visible.’”

“Mmm, she was amazing. I miss her,” Gemma hums, and Harry does, too, but it doesn’t feel heavy. It feels bright, and Harry wonders if Louis was right—if his mum really would be proud.

“Me too,” Harry smiles, reaching across the table to give Gemma’s hand a quick squeeze.

“So, but, honestly. You didn’t really give me an answer.” Gemma places her elbows on the table, leaning in slightly. “How is the new job?”

“It’s good.”

“Good?”

“Really good, actually, yeah.” Harry smiles, carding his fingers through his hair and looking away momentarily.

“Really good?” Gemma is stirring her tea with her spoon. She takes it out, licks the honey from the dip of the spoon, and narrows her eyes. “Why are you doing the hair thing?”

Harry drops his hand in his lap. “What hair thing?”

“Who did you meet?”

Harry’s mouth opens and closes like a fish, his eyes bulging as he stammers. “Who did I—no one. What? I didn’t meet anyone.”

Gemma stares at him, her gaze icy. “I’m hurt.”

“Oh, my god,” Harry groans. “Gem, I swear.”

“ _Harry_ , I swear to god.” Gemma closes her eyes and presses the heel of her hand to her forehead.

“ _What_?”

“That’s not what this is about?”

“What _what_ is about?”

“Okay, I have a quinoa porridge with almond milk?”

Harry and Gemma both turn sharply toward the waitress, who is cradling a dish in each arm. She glances at Harry, then at Gemma, and back again. Her expression is laced with confusion.

“Is everything alright?”

Harry and Gemma are both leaned nearly all the way over on the table, and they realise this at the same moment, leaning back in their chairs and straightening their posture. Harry rolls his shoulders, giving the waitress a reassuring smile.

“Yes, of course. That was quick. Fast service, as always.” He flashes her a grin, softening his voice to a low drawl.

The waitress blushes, returning Harry’s grin. “Yes, sure, no problem.”

Harry points to the space on the table in front of Gemma. “The porridge is hers.”

Nodding, the waitress places a white ceramic bowl of porridge topped with a sprinkle of chopped dates in front of Gemma, who murmurs her thanks with a polite smile.

“And the avocado toast for you?”

“Yes, thanks so much.”

It isn’t more than a moment after the waitress leaves the table when Gemma leans across the table again, hissing through her teeth.

“I thought this was a news brunch.”

“A news brunch?”

“ _Yes_. You asked me to join you for a nice brunch, you have this—this—” She waves her hand in front of Harry’s face. “This creepy _glow_ on your face. And you’re acting really fucking weird. And you don’t even have _news_ for me?” 

“What glow?”

Gemma groans loudly and lets her head fall to the table. “ _Harry_.”

“Okay, sorry,” Harry says, defensive.

Gemma lifts her head and sighs dramatically. “It’s fine. It’s fine.” She picks up her spoon, mixing the dates and almond milk through her porridge, a few drops of milk spilling over the side.

Harry kicks her foot gently with the tip of his shoe. “Next time I have news, I’ll invite you for brunch just to tell you.”

Gemma shovels a spoonful of porridge into her mouth. “Sure, whatever,” she mumbles with her mouth full. Despite her best efforts, a smile plays at the corner of her lips.

“Promise.”

Harry picks up his knife, cutting his avocado toast in half. He takes a bite of one of the halves, the toast crunching between his teeth. 

“When you realise you’re in love with whoever the guy is,” Gemma says, waving her fingers in a circle in the space between herself and Harry, “you better bring me to the poshest breakfast in London.”

Crumbs spray from between Harry’s lips as he bursts into laughter, rolling his eyes and wiping his hands down his front. “Okay, Gem. I wouldn’t prepare your order yet, though.”

“Speak for yourself,” Gemma replies. She shakes her spoon at Harry, bits of porridge dripping onto the table. “I’ve heard [The Chiltern Firehouse](http://www.chilternfirehouse.com/restaurant/luxury-london-restaurant)’s black truffle scrambled eggs are to die for.”

**January**

* * * * *

[Fallingforyou - The 1975](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W3JJxS0gNkE)

When the Christmas season arrives with its cold, wet days and bursts of twinkling lights on the trees, everything is momentarily softer and brighter. Harry, Louis, and Liam spend their last day in London before Christmas wandering down Oxford Street, where a canopy of white lights criss-crosses overhead and the streets are lined with trees wrapped in brilliant greens and blues. Strands of bulbs glitter in the windows of shops like stars, and cars come and go like visitors to admire the spectacular display. With his [hat](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/236x/e3/3d/5e/e33d5e30829ac04a3eb182932b40a610.jpg), no one tosses Louis so much as a second glance, so they sit and share a bottle of rich red wine between the three of them, and they are weightless and free.

On Christmas Eve, Louis hosts a holiday party at his house, and Harry brings two things: Gemma and a batch of homemade gingerbread cupcakes with salted caramel icing. Louis loves them both.

Louis spends the days between Christmas and New Year’s at his mum’s house, and Harry doesn’t see him for eight days. Gemma whines that Harry is being grumpy, but he insists that it’s just post-holiday stress. Once, while they’re out shopping for outfits for the New Year’s Eve party that night, Harry spots a black and white striped jumper with a deep scoop neck. He drapes the jumper in a size small over his arm and heads for the checkout. Confused, Gemma says she thought Harry wore a medium, and Harry waves her off with a toss of his hand.

The day after New Year’s, Harry makes a stop at the store, and then drives the fifteen minutes to surprise Louis at his house.

Harry rings the doorbell and counts to ten, bouncing on the balls of his feet to keep warm, his freezing fingers curled around the handles of two bags. Before he reaches the number three, Louis flings the door open and grabs Harry by the shoulders, ushering him through the doorway.

“Harry! I was wondering how long it would take for you to get your arse over here to come see me. It’s fucking freezing out there. Come on, get inside.”

Dry, icy air floods the warm entryway as Harry steps inside and closes the door behind him. He sniffs a few times.

“What is that? It smells delicious.”

“I made soup for dinner,” Louis replies, voice lilting and bright. “The minestrone recipe you sent me.”

Harry raises his eyebrows. “No way.”

“Yes way.” Louis' eyes glitter, his lips stretched tight over a closed-mouth grin.

“Well I, for one, am impressed,” Harry announces. He shifts both bags to his right hand, shrugging out of his jacket with his left arm.

“You said it was healthier, and the recipe was simple enough,” he shrugs, but his tone betrays a hint of pride. “Here, let me.”

Louis reaches for Harry’s bags, but Harry pulls them out of his reach. 

“You can’t look yet, it’s a surprise.” When Louis opens his mouth to whine, Harry holds up one pointer finger. “And yes, I know you hate surprises, but I don’t really care.”

“Ugh, _fine_ ,” Louis huffs. He stalks back into the living room, Harry following behind him, and plops down on the sofa.

Harry continues into the kitchen just around the corner. He empties one of the bags, placing two small cartons of ice cream on the work surface. Digging through the drawers underneath, he searches for two spoons.

“What are you _doing_ in there?” Louis calls from the living room.

“Oh, here they are,” Harry mumbles. He pulls two silver spoons from the silverware organiser, which is a misleading name for the container that holds Louis' silverware, which is decidedly _not_ organised at all. “Why are your drawers such a mess?” Harry yells.

“You come into _my house_ —” Louis begins, but then he pauses when Harry rounds the corner holding the ice cream cartons and the spoons. “Ice cream!”

Harry nods, smiling. “Salted caramel.”

“But Harry,” Louis whines, patting his stomach through his shirt. “My New Year’s resolution.”

“Yeah, well, _my_ New Year’s resolution is to rescue you from your stupid New Year’s resolution.” Harry walks over to Louis on the sofa. “No desserts? Do you hate yourself that much?” He pries the lid off of one of the cartons, digging a spoon into the top. He tilts the carton in Louis' direction. “Eat the ice cream.”

Louis glowers at him, but the right side of his mouth twitches upward.

“Please?” Harry’s voice is sweet and pleading.

A moment or two passes, neither of them willing to budge, before finally a smile pushes through, and Louis giggles.

“Fine.” He reaches for the carton, tucking a spoonful of ice cream into his mouth. “Thanks, love,” he adds around the mouthful.

Harry’s skin prickles at the word.

 _Love_.

He clears his throat and pulls off the lid of his own ice cream. He clumsily sinks into the sofa beside Louis, balancing the carton on his stomach and propping one arm behind his head. Taking a large spoonful, he utters a low moan of pleasure and Louis kicks him, giggling.

“What? It’s so delicious.”

“You know what this needs?” Louis muses.

“What?”

“Ginger liqueur. I have some left over from my Christmas party.”

“Mmmmm,” Harry agrees on a drawn out moan. “Like my gingerbread salted caramel cupcakes.”

“I’ll be right back.”

Louis shoves off the sofa with both hands and walks, hips swaying, into the kitchen. He returns moments later with a nearly full black bottle of The King’s Ginger and two shot glasses. Setting them on the floor in front of them, he settles back onto the sofa.

“Salted caramel is my favourite. How did you know?”

Harry shrugs, flattening his tongue in the curve of his spoon. 

“I didn't actually know. Lucky guess. You ate the icing off of, like, six of those cupcakes I brought.”

“Good guess,” Louis giggles. “What else don’t you know about me?”

“Hmm.” Harry taps his spoon on the side of his carton, his eyes darting upward as he thinks. “I can’t believe I’ve never asked this. What’s your favourite movie?”

Louis swallows a massive bite of ice cream, gazing hesitantly at Harry.

“If I tell you, you’re not allowed to laugh.”

“I won’t laugh.”

“ _Swear_ you won’t.”

“Just tell me,” Harry says, rolling his eyes. He lifts another spoonful of ice cream to his mouth.

“Alright,” Louis sighs. “Notting Hill. That’s my favor—what? Harry, what? Are you okay? You total _dick_ , you said you wouldn’t laugh!”

Harry sputters and coughs, pressing a hand to his chest. “Oh my god,” he chokes. “I just inhaled my ice cream, fuck—”

Louis grimaces, absently stirring around the melting edges of his ice cream with his spoon.

“That’s your own fault for—oh _really_ , Harry. It’s a good fucking movie, okay, like, have you ever—”

“That’s my favourite movie, too,” Harry gasps through his coughing and laughter. “I love that movie so much, I can’t believe it’s your favourite!”

“It _is_?” Louis asks, sitting up straight on the sofa.

“Yeah,” Harry says with matching excitement.

Then Louis narrows his eyes and points accusingly at him. “You’re not taking the piss?” he demands suspiciously.

Harry shakes his head vigorously. “I’m not, I swear. Pinky promise,” he adds, holding up his little finger to Louis, who visibly relaxes into Harry’s pinky swear. 

“Then holy shit, what the fuck are we doing?” Louis cries. “Let’s watch it!”

As Louis excitedly grabs the movie from the cabinet and sets it up on the telly, Harry pours them each a shot of ginger liqueur. Louis presses play, and they clink their glasses together, tipping them back and chasing their shots with spoonfuls of salted caramel ice cream.

“Mmm,” Harry hums. “Just like a cupcake.”

“Tastes like Christmas in my mouth,” Louis mumbles in agreement.

Harry and Louis lay sprawled out on either side of the sofa, taking lazy sips of ginger liqueur and their now-melted ice cream. The air around them shimmers with warmth and puffs of alcohol breath. On the screen, William Thacker is saying, “ _Do you always say no to everything?_ ” Anna thinks and then replies with a smirk, “ _No_ ,” and Louis' silent giggling shakes the sofa.

Harry’s limbs grow heavier as the alcohol runs warm and thick through his veins. His head is propped up on a pillow against the armrest, his feet draped sideways over the edge of the sofa. Louis has his legs tucked in close to him, his eyes absolutely glued to the telly.

In the movie, William is attempting to climb the garden gate, and Anna is by his side, giggling every time he blurts out “ _Whoops-a-daisy_.” 

Grinning, Louis nudges Harry’s foot with one of his wool-socked toes.

“You probably say ‘whoops-a-daisy.’”

He probably does. 

“I do not,” Harry lies, slow and warm.

“Shhh.” Louis kicks him again. “I love this part.”

Harry has seen the movie so many times he has every scene memorized. He listens to the dialogue, but he’s not looking at the screen; he’s watching Louis across the couch.

William is grumbling as he struggles to climb over the gate, and he finally falls with a ‘thud.’ A gentle guitar melody begins to float through the speakers as he mutters, “ _Now what in the world could make that ordeal worthwhile?_ ”

Louis pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, leaning forward, eyes fastened on the screen. 

On the screen, Anna draws William in for a deep, warm kiss. Across the sofa, Louis bites down hard on his lip, his eyes soft, hands clasped in his lap. He smiles slightly, his cheeks pressing up on his eyes and causing them to shrink in size. His expression is excited—reverent, almost. 

“I love this song,” he whispers.

Ronan Keating’s [“When You Say Nothing At All”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7xrxrEEGVdM) drifts through the warm, dimly-lit living room, and Louis hums along, and everything is a warm auburn colour. 

“Sing it, then,” Harry says, nudging Louis with his knee. 

“No,” Louis replies. “I don’t like to sing my favourite songs. If I’m singing, I’m not listening.”

Harry takes a sip of ginger liqueur directly from the bottle, then passes it to Louis, who reaches out for it. Harry chuckles, shaking his head.

“Louis Tomlinson, you make no sense to me,” is what he says. What he means is, “ _You’re perfect._ ”

* * * * *

[Mess Is Mine - Vance Joy](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1C816p-KTNk)

Sweat prickles on Harry’s skin and gathers in the crease of his neck. He opens his eyes and he is _hot_. Two fleece blankets sit heavy on top of him, save for one foot that pokes out from under the right corner. He squeezes his eyes shut, rubbing them with the heels of his palms, and kicks the blankets onto the floor.

His arms stretch over his head, and his back protests with a few popping sounds. As he sits up on the sofa, he finally registers his surroundings.

He’s on Louis' couch, in Louis' house. Sometime between his latest memory of last night and now, Harry had fallen asleep where he’d been sitting last night, and Louis had covered—absolutely _smothered_ —him with blankets.

Harry retrieves the blankets from the floor to fold them. Sunlight trickles in through the half-closed curtains and gathers on the floor in delicate, rippling pools of light. Absently, he lifts the corner of one blanket to his face to inhale the scent of the plush material, and it smells the way sunshine feels on tanned skin; warm, musky, a hint of citrus. 

The house is quiet, and Harry moves, delicate and slow, across the floor. Silence clings tenuously to the walls like spiderwebs in the ever-brightening room.

In the kitchen, Harry rummages through Louis' drawers. True to character, Louis has left the kitchen an organised disaster; everything is hidden out of sight and the counters wiped clean, but in the drawers, cups are haphazardly tossed in with knives, and pots with plates. Harry shakes his head, smiling to himself, as he retrieves the frying pan he was looking for from under a stainless steel mixing bowl.

Later, when Louis rounds the corner and steps into the kitchen, all squinty eyes and soft edges, Harry is spreading butter on the last piece of toast.

“What's all this?” Louis asks, voice rough with sleep, gesturing to the spread on the counter. A pair of grey joggers hang low on his hips, and his hair sticks out on one side.

“I made breakfast,” Harry answers brightly. He snaps the lid back on the butter container, and rests his palm on the work surface, leaning his weight on one arm. “It was the least I could do, crashing here uninvited and all that.”

“Uninvited? Don’t be a twat. You have a standing invitation.” Louis sweeps his eyes over the dishes on the counter, which are piled high with poached eggs, bacon, and toast. “Especially now that I know you'll cook a full English in the morning.”

“Nearly,” Harry corrects him. “No beans, though.”

Louis shrugs. “The bacon is the best part anyway.”

When Harry serves them, he splits everything in half, but he gives Louis some of his share of bacon. If Louis notices, he doesn't say so. 

Harry takes a bite of toast and shuffles his feet under the table.

“You nervous for tonight?”

Louis pushes his eggs around his plate with his fork. “For the Brits? It's hard to say.” He shovels a bite of eggs into his mouth, continuing to talk as he chews. “Award shows are never my favourite things. It's a completely different atmosphere than, say, a talk show, but—” he swallows, wiping the corner of his mouth with his sleeve, and shrugging one shoulder. “—you get used to it.”

Harry just nods and takes too big of a bite of his toast, because he is at Louis' house and eating breakfast at Louis' table and there are a thousand things he wants more right now than to talk about work as dawn turns to day and Louis hums under his breath across the table.

Bringing up work made the air feel thick and heavy, so there is a quiet that feels clumsy between them as they finish their breakfast. Harry is using the last few bites of toast to clean the egg yolk off his plate when Louis finally says it.

“Harry?” he says, fork loaded with eggs and poised in the air as if he finally got the courage halfway through a bite.

“Yeah?”

Louis shifts in his seat, placing his fork back on his plate and furrowing his brow. “I, um...there’s something I need to tell you.”

Harry senses _something_ and pulls his chair across the floor to sit closer to Louis, their shoulders nearly touching. “Yeah, anything, of course.” If Harry was good at anything other than his job, it was at figuring out what people needed at most times, and right now, Harry sensed that Louis just needed someone to listen.

“It’s not that, um,” Louis pauses, coughs into a white-knuckled fist. “It’s not that I didn’t want you to know...what I'm going to tell you. It’s more that, if you didn’t know, then with you, things could be...different.”

“Different how?”

“Different like...from the rest of my team.”

There’s a long beat of silence, and Louis slides his palms up and down the fabric of his joggers, a nervous habit that hadn’t taken Harry long to figure out was Louis' attempt to calm himself when things pressed in too close and heavy. And then:

“I’m gay.”

Louis lets it out like a breath he’d been holding, and glances, expectant, at Harry.

“Louis, were you—were you afraid to tell me? You know I’m gay, I would never have…” Harry trails off, shaking his head, and his heart aches to think of Louis being afraid of him. To think of Louis being afraid of anything at all.

“Yes, but...not because of anything I thought you might have said or thought.” His voice catches on the next few words. “It was because of me.”

Harry bites his lip to suppress the automatic reassurance and gently urges him on with a look.

Louis draws a ragged breath, his shoulders trembling as he continues. 

“When I met you, there was something about you. Something comfortable, something that made me feel… _okay_ , when it had been a long time since I’d felt anything close to okay.” He pauses, then offers a small smile and a self-deprecating shake of his head. “This is so fucking cliche, god.”

“No, don’t—” Harry remembers the first night in the bar with Louis, two months ago when November was just beginning and he was still jet-lagged from the trip home from New York and Louis made everything warm and easy. “I felt the same,” he says gently.

“It was just—” Louis rushes on. “—you were here and you were good.” His voice breaks in the middle of his sentence, but his demeanor is determined. “From the beginning of this singing thing, I knew I’d be dealing with a closet. At least for a while. I started so young,” he shrugs. “I guess letting me come out at such a young age seemed too big a risk to my management at the time.”

Harry nods along with Louis' words, silently encouraging him to continue. Now that he’s gotten himself talking, he doesn’t seem to need further reassurance, and the words are freely tumbling out.

“So I’ve pretty much always been the classic closet case. My last stylist, Caroline, she was lovely. She really was, but I knew that to her, I wasn’t _me_ , I was just the gay boy she made to look straight, you know?”

“I do,” Harry says gently. “Did that bother you?”

“Not really, if I’m honest. It was a shit part of the job, but it was still just part of the job to me.”

“I understand that. And what about now?”

“Well, that’s—that’s the thing.” Louis glances down at his lap and Harry holds his breath. “That’s why I didn’t tell you.” His voice is so thin, so honest, and he grimaces as if the words burn his throat on the way up. “For the first time, the idea of you not seeing _me_ , that bothered me. I wanted to be so much more to you than a strategy, more than a problem to solve.”

“Louis, _god_ , you are, you’re so much more—”

“But would I be if you had known from the beginning?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Harry says, earnest, pleading. “From the moment I met you, when you walked into that conference room with that _goddamn_ loud voice of yours, I knew you were special. I knew they’d try to contain you, but I also knew they’d never truly be able to.”

“I think I’m…” Louis trails off, and his hands tighten into white-knuckled fists. His shoulders shake as a sob escapes his lips. “I’m finally fed up. I don’t—I don’t w-want this anymore.”

Harry lifts his hand to rub Louis' back between his shoulder blades. “What do you want?”

“So much,” Louis breathes. “So much. Freedom. I want to wear my favourite purple jumper tonight to the Brits, the one I wore during that first meeting with Simon hoping to make a good first impression on you. Did it work?” Louis chuckles without a hint of humour, shaking his head and continuing before Harry can answer. “Sad, isn’t it? Wearing clothing hoping it will communicate things about you to people, things you can’t just say out loud. I want—I want to be a real person instead of a fabrication of someone else.” Louis' voice grows weaker, shakier. “I want to stop saying ‘you get used to it’ when wh-what I really mean is—is ‘you b-become n-n-numb’— _fuck_ , I’m sorry—I’m—”

And in front of Harry’s eyes, Louis collapses.

“Oh, Louis.” Harry wraps his arms around Louis' trembling torso, and he feels so fragile, so small as Harry pulls Louis into him, gently rocking back and forth. Pressed into Harry’s chest, Louis weeps, his tears soaking Harry’s shirt. “Shhh. Okay. Oh, love,” Harry murmurs. “Just breathe.”

“I’m s-s-so sorry,” Louis whimpers into the damp fabric.

“No, shhh, no.” Harry runs his fingers through the back of Louis' hair, cradling his shaking frame, and the sight blurs as tears gather in Harry’s vision. He rubs Louis' back in circles, and Louis melts into him.

They tremble together, and the world spins madly on around them, careless to the cracks in their fragile frames. 

Finally, Louis' sobs grow quiet, until he’s left sniffling softly into Harry’s shoulder. Harry turns his head into Louis’ hair and whispers, “Can I tell you something?”

Louis sits up, wiping his running nose with his sleeve. He points to the wet spot on Harry’s stomach. “Oh, god, gross, I’m so sorry.”

Harry looks down and releases a breathy laugh. “Don’t worry about it.” He reaches out to Louis' face, drying a tear with the pad of his thumb. “It’ll dry. It always does.”

“What were you going to say?”

“Do you mind if I ramble a bit?”

Louis nods. “Please.”

“I think...” Harry begins, drawing in a deep breath. “...if you want it, whatever ‘it’ is, you can have it. You could pluck the moon from the sky, if you wanted to, and the stars would follow right behind. You can do _anything_ , Louis Tomlinson. You want freedom, you can win it.”

Louis sniffs and leans his head on Harry’s shoulder.

“And that’s why they’ve taken so much away from you,” Harry continues, leaning his head on Louis’ and lowering the volume of his voice. “When you think you can never get what you want, then you stop wanting things altogether. And god knows, Louis, what you want, you _get_.”

Louis lifts his head to look at Harry, and his eyes are deep and wild like the ocean after a storm.

“When I look at you,” Harry whispers, “I see someone who still has so much left to do, so much left to experience.” His eyes flicker between Louis’, desperate to capture him, desperate to make him _understand_. "No matter how much you’ve been hurt by Simon, the media, your fans; no matter who they’ve tried to convince you you are, you are still Louis. You are still Louis who loves to sing, Louis who loves to wear stripes, Louis who loves his family more than anything.” Harry lets the moment hang for a breath, then he places his hand over Louis’. “They can’t take those things.”

Harry can hear every shaky breath that Louis takes. If he weren’t listening closely enough, he wouldn’t have heard when Louis speaks, barely above a breath. 

“You think so?”

Harry clutches Louis’ hand, giving it a quick squeeze. “I do.”

Louis glances down at his plate, and pushes it toward the centre of the table. “I think I got tears on my toast.”

A beat passes, then Harry and Louis both erupt into giggles, Louis covering his mouth with his hand and his eyes crinkling.

“Hey, I almost forgot.” Harry stands up from the table, pushing his chair back and walking over to the work surface where he had placed the second bag he brought the night before. “I got you something.”

“Got _me_ something?” Louis sniffs loudly, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand. “We said no Christmas gifts, Harry.”

“I know,” Harry grins. “It’s not a Christmas gift. It’s a New Year’s gift.”

Louis sighs, shaking his head. “You’re such an idiot.”

“Close your eyes.”

Louis does, and Harry takes the striped scoop neck jumper he’d bought with Gemma from its bag. He unfolds it, and holds it up by the shoulders in front of his torso. 

“Okay, you can open them.”

Louis opens his eyes, and then widens them. “Is that for me?”

Harry grins, and nods. “Of course it is.”

Louis places both hands over his wide open mouth, surprised laughter leaking out from the cracks between his fingers. “Oh my god, I love it.”

Harry hands the jumper to Louis, who opens it up and holds it in front of him to get a better look.

“I saw it and it just kind of screamed your name to me,” Harry shrugs.

“Where am I wearing it?” Louis asks, lowering the jumper to his lap.

“What do you mean?”

“Like, what’s it for? Is it for the red carpet tonight?”

“Oh!” Harry’s eyes widen slightly. “No, it’s not for anything. It’s for you, to wear whenever you want.”

“For me?”

Harry smiles. “For you.”

Louis lifts the jumper up again, takes another look, then hugs it to his chest. “Thank you so much.”

He stands up from his chair to hug Harry. He nestles himself under Harry’s arms, which are wrapped around Louis' shoulders. Louis presses his face into Harry’s neck, and Harry almost doesn’t hear when he whispers something else.

“For everything.”

* * * * *

That night, Harry and Liam are humming along to Beyonce in the dressing room when a series of loud knocks comes from the direction of the door. Harry tosses the pair of shoes he’s holding into the box across the room, and bumps Liam’s fist when both shoes make it in.

“Come in,” he calls.

The door opens, and Simon steps through, a polite smile stuck to his face. He offers a stiff nod, which Harry begrudgingly returns.

“Evening, gentlemen,” Simon says, voiced sharp and clipped. “Quite a big night tonight, wouldn’t you agree? The British Music Awards, and Louis presenting an award. We are looking forward to seeing what you’ve put together.”

Liam and Harry mumble a strange mixture of phrases like “we are, too,” and “thank you” while Simon glances around the dressing room. 

Against the far wall, an outfit consisting of trousers and a blazer hangs on a hook and Simon gestures to it with a wave of his hand. “May I?”

“By all means,” Harry deadpans. As Simon crosses the dressing room, Liam shoots Harry a warning look, which Harry shrugs off.

“Ah, yes,” Simon says. He fingers the lapel of the blazer. “I like the red accents here. Although I wonder, have you considered casual black jeans instead of these more formal trousers?”

“I have considered a lot of things,” Harry replies flatly.

Liam’s eyes nearly bug out of his head, and he launches himself between Harry and Simon. “What, um, what makes you suggest that, sir?” he stammers.

“Merely thinking out loud. You are the experts, of course.”

Harry wishes he could roll his eyes all the way around, but he knows even then it wouldn’t be far enough. 

“I’m curious, though,” Simon continues. He backs away from the outfit on the hook, hands on his hips. Harry presses his lips into a thin line, and Simon scans his eyes up and down the set. He gestures to the outfit with one hand which dangles from his limp wrist. “What shirt will Mr. Tomlinson be wearing underneath the blazer?”

“He’ll be wearing a graphic tee from his personal collection.”

Simon’s eyebrows dart upward. “His personal collection?”

“Yes, sir,” Liam cuts in. “It was a recent purchase. He asked to incorporate it, and we expect it will be...appropriate, you might say.”

“Hmm.” Simon steeples his fingers together, pursing his lips slightly. “Appropriate. Yes, well. Thank you.”

Harry and Liam both nod. 

Simon pulls the door open, tossing one last glance around the dressing room. “You are welcome to help yourselves to a glass of champagne in the room down the hall, should you find that satisfactory.”

“We might need the whole bottle,” Harry mutters, then he grunts when Liam hisses and elbows him in the stomach.

Simon coughs uncomfortably. “Right. Well.” He steps through the doorway, and retorts, “Always a pleasure, Mr. Styles.”

* * * * *

[Gimme Some Lovin’ - The Spencer Davis Group](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ko3m0NBbq1o)

Louis is panting when he crashes through the door and into the dressing room twenty minutes later, all frantic energy and electricity under his skin. “Fuck, I’m so excited.”

Harry grins, jumping up from his chair and rushing to Louis. “Did you bring it?”

“No _shit_ I brought it,” Louis laughs as he pulls a small bag from behind his back and hands it to Harry. His hands are shaking, but a frenzied excitement emanates from him like a pulsing cloud.

Harry opens the bag and squeals when he sees the contents.

“Let me see,” Liam calls from where he’s leaning up against the work table.

Harry tosses the item to Liam, and Liam grins, nodding slowly as his mouth widens. “Sick, mate. Just brilliant.”

“Oh my god.” Louis shakes his hands at his sides in an attempt to release some of his nervous energy. “I can’t believe we’re doing this. I can’t believe we’re really _doing this_.”

He’s bouncing and wiggling, but Harry places a hand on Louis' shoulder, and Louis stills. His eyes grow suddenly focused as he watches Harry’s expression.

“ _You’re_ doing this,” Harry says, and, oh god, he feels so _proud_. He feels so proud, it’s pressing on him from the inside out and he feels he could burst with it.

Liam steps behind Louis and drapes the item over Louis' shoulder, followed by a quick, reassuring squeeze. Louis reaches up to place his hand over Liam’s. With Harry in front him and Liam behind, Louis' posture is straighter and his expression confident, and Harry wants to keep this moment, wants to remember the way Louis looks so strong, wants to remember the muffled roar of the crowd that gathers outside and the way that, in this moment, none of that matters at all.

“Well, what are you waiting for? Put it on,” Harry urges.

Louis releases a quick breath and rubs his palms together. “Okay,” he says, and it feels like a declaration. Reaching behind him and gripping his collar, he pulls his shirt off over his head.

* * * * *

Louis is on the red carpet. Right now. He’s there, he’s wearing it. And he’s having his picture taken in it.

Harry is pacing back and forth in the dressing room, pushing his hand anxiously through his hair.

Liam chuckles, tipping his glass back on his lip to take a sip of champagne. His eyes track Harry back and forth across the floor. “I think you’re more nervous than Louis is, mate.”

“Of _course_ I’m nervous, Liam,” Harry sighs, exasperated. “What time is it?”

“Nearly six-thirty,” Liam replies, glancing at his watch. “He’s probably already done on the red carpet by now.”

Harry nods, and swallows thickly, resuming his pacing. “Do you think he’ll come back here?”

Liam rolls his eyes. “When has he ever not spent every moment in here with you?”

“So, is that a yes?”

“I’m going to go get you more champagne,” Liam sighs. “Just take deep breaths. He’ll be back here before seven, I’m sure.”

Harry mumbles under his breath and sinks into the sofa in the corner, tossing his head back on the armrest. He doesn’t see Liam leave, but he hears the door shut behind him. More champagne. Yeah, that sounds good.

He reaches into his pocket and curls his fingers around his phone. Maybe he’ll check Twitter to see if any photos of Louis on the carpet have been posted yet. He follows probably thirty-some Louis Tomlinson fan accounts; on days off, he sometimes checks them to see if Louis has taken new photos with fans, or if any more unseen photos from the earliest days of his career have been dug up. Days off are the best days for that sort of thing.

As he types in his passcode, he pauses, his finger hovering over the screen. Nervousness curls in the pit of his stomach.

On second thought, maybe checking Twitter can wait.

He glances at the time at the top of his screen. Slides his phone into his pocket. Checks his wristwatch.

Time creeps slowly along, taunting Harry, widening the gap in time between when he sent Louis out the back door to the red carpet and when he will return, carrying the reactions of fans, the media, Simon. Harry waits for Liam to come back with more champagne, for Louis to come back with his smiling face. He waits, and he hopes, and hopes, and hopes.

Suddenly, the door is thrown open, hitting the wall next to it with a loud crash.

“What. Have. You. _Done_?”

Simon’s frame looms in the doorway, his face a deep red, hands balled in tight fists at his sides. His knuckles are white, and his pupils are an angry black.

So, now, then. Harry is going to deal with this now.

“Excuse me?” He rises to his feet.

“The shirt,” Simon snaps. “You were well aware of this.”

“I was.”

Simon takes four steps toward Harry, who stands his ground, his expression firm and unflinching.

“I didn't think I would need to _specify_ for you, Mr. Styles, that Louis is not under _any_ circumstances to be dressed in a _rainbow_.”

“The shirt is one of Louis' personal—”

“I am well _aware_ to whom the shirt belongs. And _you_ ,” Simon hisses, pressing a finger to Harry's chest, “are well aware that you are expected to operate under a very specific set of guidelines, established for an equally specific purpose.”

“I understand.”

“So do you _understand_ , then, the reaction this will cause? The _assumptions_ it will lead people to make?”

“You mean the, uh,” Harry clears his throat for emphasis, “ _true_ assumption that Louis is—”

“Please—” Simon cuts him off with a firm near-shout. “—reconsider what it is you are about to say.”

“Oh, shit, silly me,” Harry spits. “I thought we valued the truth. I thought we allowed people basic human _dignity_.”

“Hasty, and potentially costly, self-expression is not the same thing as dignity,” Simon hisses. “And seeing how undignified your behavior has been, I'm unsurprised that you don't know that difference.”

“Costly,” Harry challenges. “What a word to choose. Is this about Louis? Or is this about lining your pockets?”

Simon draws back, rolling his shoulders back and composing his expression. He fixes Harry with a stony glare. “Consider this a warning. It will be the only one of its kind.”

Harry returns the glare, and they stand, face to face, waging a battle of endurance.

Finally, Simon speaks, and it’s harsh but harmless. They both know, without saying it, that Harry has won this particular battle. “Well, I'll leave you to it, then. You have a wardrobe change to attend to.”

Harry lets him leave, just like that, without saying a word. His gut screams, pleads with him to fire back—god knows he has enough to say to Simon. But he doesn't. And he's okay. Because right now, at quarter to seven in the dressing room at the Brit Awards, is not the time to fight. But right _now_ , at this point in Louis' career, as he has begun to cry out for freedom—well, there is no better time to fight. And fight, they will.

Once Simon is gone, Harry sinks back down onto the sofa and props his feet up on the fold-up chair in front of him. He releases a long, heavy breath. Swiping his thumb to unlock his phone, he clicks on the Twitter icon. In the search bar, he types ‘Louis Tomlinson brits.’ Pictures begin to load on the screen, and there he is, _there he is_ , with his wide-legged stance and his [grey pocket tank](https://www.wantering.com/lightning-bolt-rainbow-triblend-pocket-tank-top/aDzl8/) with a faded rainbow printed across the chest and a white lightning bolt emblazoned over top. If tears gather in Harry’s eyes as he scrolls through the photos, he wipes them away with the back of his hand just before Liam steps into the dressing room carrying two flutes of champagne, so no one has to know.

* * * * *

When Louis comes barreling through the door of the dressing room, he launches himself at Harry, who stands at the mirror twisting his hair into a bun.

“Whoa,” Harry grunts as Louis slams into his torso. He giggles as Louis loops his arms around Harry’s torso and bounces on his feet. “Careful, okay, wait, careful, you’re going to hit my—ow!”

In his bouncing, Louis bumps Harry’s chin with his shoulder, and he pulls back, cupping Harry’s jaw with both hands. His worried gaze flickers between Harry’s eyes, a crease forming between his eyebrows.

“Shit! I’m sorry, Hazza, are you okay?”

“Yes, yes,” Harry nods, laughing. He winds his hair tie around his hair and pulls his bun tight. “I’m fine.”

Louis keeps a firm grip on Harry's face, staring in exhilarated disbelief. He is a fireworks display in the split second before it explodes and shatters the night sky into a million glittering pieces. His trembling shakes holes in his skin, and through them, the light spills out.

“I did it,” Louis whispers, and his eyes widen slightly as if the very words surprise him.

“You did it,” Harry echoes.

Louis drops his hands, urgently patting his pockets for his phone. “You have to see this.” 

Harry’s jaw tingles with the warmth that Louis' palms left behind. 

Louis digs his phone from his pocket, and his lips tremble as he thumbs through pages of tweets. “Look at these. Just, look at all of them.”

One after another, the tweets filter in. Frantic. Shocked. Proud. Supportive.

“‘My sweet, proud, rainbow angel baby.’” Harry chuckles as he reads. “I like that description.”

Ordinarily, Louis would have come back at Harry with something quick and witty. Probably something about how he truly is an angel, and Harry _had better not forget it_. Right now, though, he's just shaking his head in disbelief, his eyes misty and glistening in the light from the bulbs above the dressing room mirror.

“They are so proud of you,” Harry murmurs. Partly because it's true, and partly because he loves to watch Louis bask in the support and the magic of it all. 

Louis just nods. He moves like he is in a trance.

“Here, look at this one.” Harry opens a picture on his phone of a manip of Louis in his rainbow tank and royal robes. An ornate, golden crown rests atop his head. “Quite royal.”

Louis grins. “They have this thing, my fans do. They sometimes call me King Louis. Like, after Louis XIV.”

“The Sun King,” Harry replies.

“Yeah.”

It fits. It fits so well, and Harry is grinning at Louis and he feels the smile all the way in his belly. “Nice,” he says.

“Harry?”

“Yeah?”

“I don't present my award until eight.”

Harry points to his phone screen. “I know. Your update accounts are furiously trying to figure out where you are right now, and why you’re not in your seat in the audience.”

Louis sighs, flopping onto the sofa on his back. “Let them wonder,” he says with a wave of his hand. “Can I stay back here with you?”

“Yes, of course, always,” Harry answers. 

Louis mumbles contentedly, and Harry plucks the two half-empty champagne flutes from the work table. He hands one to Louis, who tosses it back in one gulp, his head pillowed on the arm rest of the sofa. One arm is tossed carelessly above his head, and a few stray strands of hair escape from his near-perfectly molded quiff.

Harry sips his champagne slowly, and the bubbles pop and fizz in his smiling mouth. “Cheers to King Louis and his rainbow,” he says with a flash of his glass.

Louis answers, “Cheers,” and it feels like the world is on fire around them. Beautiful, beautiful fire.

* * * * *

Late January comes like a cold gust of wind through a bedroom window. Ivory pillows of snow line the streets on either side, and the morning air smells crisp and hangs thick with frost. It is on one of these mornings, the mornings that demand a second cup of tea, that Niall calls.

“Ni!” Harry cries into the receiver. “No fucking way.”

“Way,” Niall laughs from the other end. “How've you been, Haz?”

“Good. So good. How's the tour?”

“Sick, mate. Yeah, really sick. Just played San Diego last night.”

“San Diego?” Harry’s shoulders shake as he begins to laugh. “Do you—do you remember last year—”

“Harry, shut the fuck up.”

“—when you—ah!” Harry clutches his stomach, leaned over in laughter at the table. “When you—”

“ _Yes_ , I remember, okay—”

“When you totally _wiped_ the fuck out.”

“I hate you,” Niall groans.

“I thought you’d have a concussion, the way you smacked your head on the railing.”

Niall sighs, and there's silence on the line for a few moments. Then he begins to giggle, his famous loud, honking giggle. 

“It trended for like thirty-six hours.”

Harry throws his head back and cackles, slapping his knee with his right palm.

They laugh together, and for a moment, it's just as it was three months ago in a little dressing room at a city venue before Harry was transplanted like an appendage Niall no longer had any need for. It's like they're in a room together and not separated by the distance of half the globe.

“Hey, so I'm calling because I've got a break coming up,” Niall explains, his tone drifting into something more serious. “I'll be back in the UK next weekend, will you and Li be around?”

“Yeah, yeah, we'll be here,” Harry replies eagerly. “How long are you back?”

“Couple of days in London, then I'll probably stop by my hometown and visit the family.”

“Well, you're welcome to stay at my flat for however long you're here,” Harry offers. 

“I might do just that. Oi, when was the last time anyone took you out to an over-priced dinner at a posh restaurant?”

Harry chuckles. “Not since you in New York, Ni.”

“Well, check with Liam and clear your schedules, then. It'll be just like old times. And you'll have to tell me about this Louis Tomlinson character. Never officially met the fellow.”

“I will,” Harry assures Niall, and he wonders where on earth he could possibly begin.

“Sick. Alright, mate. See you next weekend, then.”

“See you next weekend,” Harry echoes, and yeah. That feels good.

* * * * *

Louis' breath is already tinged with alcohol when the driver pulls the car to a stop in front of the Greek Street Soho House, and he leans in front of Harry to glance out Harry’s window. He lets out a low whistle. In front of the entrance, paparazzi flutter like moths under the lights, their camera lenses poised to capture the approach of every A-list guest to Nick Grimshaw’s birthday party.

“‘S a lot of paps for a birthday party,” Louis observes as he leans back in his seat, adjusting his jacket on his shoulders. 

“It is,” Harry agrees. “You ready?”

“ _Please_ , Hazza,” Louis chuckles with a flick of his wrist. 

“What?”

Louis draws his hands down his torso in the air, gesturing at himself. “Look at this ensemble. I’m turning _myself_ on. The camera is going to love me.”

Harry’s eyes scan the fitted black jacket, and his gaze is drawn to the middle of Louis' torso, where the jacket pulls in to accentuate the narrow curve of his waist and then flares out to flaunt the bloom of his hips. Heat prickles at the back of Harry’s neck, and he finds it peculiar how stuffy the car feels all of the sudden, despite the biting cold outside.

“Well, hey, that’s not fair. I dressed you. Don’t I get partial credit?”

Louis laughs, and the light catches in the small beaded medallion on his left breast pocket through the car window. “For turning me on?”

“What—no,” Harry sputters. “You _twat_ , I meant the outfit.”

Louis grins, and there’s too much self-satisfaction in it for Harry’s liking, so for good measure, he adds: “If you bother me, I’m not going to give you the run-down of what you’re wearing. If anyone asks who your jacket is, you’re on your own.”

“Harry!” Louis clutches frantically at Harry’s sleeve. “Oh my god. Do you _want_ me to be humiliated?”

Harry giggles and pushes Louis' hands away. “Be nice to me.”

“Fine. Whatever,” Louis huffs. “I don’t need you. My jacket is Alice McQueen, and my shirt is Giv- _etch_ -ny. And my shoes,” he pulls his right foot up to cross it over his left thigh, “they’re, um—fuck. Who are my shoes?”

Harry groans, placing his palms over his face. “You are literally a stylist’s worst nightmare.”

Louis sticks out his lower lip, his eyes wide and pleading. “I’m fashion illiterate. Give me the answers. Please?”

“Okay,” Harry sighs. “Your jacket is _Alexander_ McQueen, and your shirt is _Givenchy_. These buttons—hey, wait. Your favourite jumper? The lilac one?”

Louis quirks one eyebrow, confused. “Uh, yeah?”

“That’s Burberry. It’s absolutely gorgeous. And you have this great top from Saint Laurent, you know your geometric print one?”

“The green one?”

Harry nods. “Yeah, that one. You can’t be fashion illiterate with pieces like those.”

“I don’t know,” Louis shrugs. “I like what I like. I hate all this fuss about name and brand.”

Harry pinches the bridge of his nose with his fingers, squeezing his eyes shut. “Stop that before you kill me.”

“Sorry,” Louis giggles. “What were you saying about my buttons?”

Releasing a deep, dramatic sigh, Harry fingers one of the buttons on Louis’ red button-down shirt. “The buttons on your _Givenchy_ shirt—say it with me—”

“Givenchy,” Louis repeats in unison with Harry.

“Good. So, the buttons are real gold, if anyone asks. Or even if they don’t. You probably could work it into the conversation, because it’s cool. And the shoes are just black loafers. Saint Laurent.”

If Harry’s honest, the shoes are his favourite piece of the whole ensemble. Selecting the various components had been one of Harry’s favourite projects to date. With parties, especially lavish birthday parties for Academy Award nominated actors like Nick Grimshaw who were a bit more, say, _creative_ about their celebrations, there was much more room for experimentation than highly calculated photoshoots and promotional appearances. Sure, Louis would be papped entering and leaving the party, but everyone knew parties were an occasion for outlandish outfits and bold pattern combinations. Didn’t Katy Perry once arrive to Perez Hilton’s birthday party riding on an elephant? Harry could definitely get away with dressing Louis in some of his favourite designers. 

Plus, Louis Tomlinson in Givenchy. Be still, Harry's beating heart. 

“McQueen. Givenchy. Good old YSL. Got it. Ready?” Louis points his thumb toward the entrance of the Soho House.

“Yep,” Harry confirms. “Want me to hang back and let you go ahead?”

“What? No way,” Louis answers, wrinkling his nose as if he’d never heard anything more ridiculous. “Walk with me, Styles the Stylist.”

When they step out of the Range Rover, the crisp night air is flooded with the sounds of camera shutters bursting and paparazzi yelling Louis' name. Harry ducks his head, peering up through the curls that fall over his face. In front of him, illuminated by bursts of light from the flashbulbs, Louis walks with his shoulders thrust back and his head swivels side to side, grinning wildly. A crowd of fans stands off to the side, held back by a wall of security, and they call to Louis, who makes a point to pause and wave at them. He turns on his heel and disappears into the doorway after blowing one last kiss, and Harry can’t help but marvel as Louis seems to float on air at the fact that, all the bullshit stunts and image control aside, something deep inside Louis was born for this.

Inside, Harry follows Louis toward the bar. [A Calvin Harris song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qWWSM3wCiKY) pulses in the dimly lit room, and when Louis looks behind him to draw Harry to his side, his face is illuminated by green and red flashing lights.

Louis saunters up to the bar and motions the bartender over with a wave of his hand. The bartender is an unearthly type of gorgeous, with jet black hair that sits careless of gravity atop his head, swept over his forehead with a certain calculated nonchalance. As he leans across the bar and purses his lips forward, his cheeks hollow and his cheekbones look poised to pierce through his skin. 

“I’m Zayn,” the bartender drawls. He’s looking at Louis like he’d like to take a bite out of him. Harry taps his fingers impatiently against the seam of his trousers.

“Louis. Delighted,” Louis replies politely. “Two pale ales, please.”

Zayn pushes his fingers through his silky hair and shoves off from the bar. “Coming right up.”

“He thinks you’re hot,” Harry whispers when Zayn is out of earshot.

“It’s the Alexander McQueen. Didn’t think I’d have to tell _you_ that,” Louis winks.

“Good memory,” Harry remarks, and he takes a gulp of the pint Zayn has placed in front of him. He slams it back down on the counter with a loud “Ah!” and wipes foam from his top lip with the back of his hand.

“Thanks, babe,” Louis says when Zayn personally hands his pint to him. 

“What else can I do for you?” Zayn asks, his voice low and raspy.

“I’ll let you know when I get right about here.” Louis points a finger about an inch above the bottom of his pint glass. “In the meantime, can I start a tab?”

“A tab?” comes a booming voice from behind them. Harry and Louis whirl around, and Nick Grimshaw stands before them, arms outstretched. “Darlings, it’s on me tonight.” He turns to Zayn, who is bent nearly all the way over the counter. “And Zayn, keep it in your pants for at least another hour out of respect for the holiday, would you?”

Zayn rolls his eyes and turns to the next cluster of people gathered at the bar demanding fruity pink drinks. Which, hey, Harry can respect a nice pink drink. He never leaves a bar without a little paper umbrella. He has a collection of them in a drawer in his flat.

“Nick! How are you, mate?” Louis cries. “Happy birthday!”

Nick draws Louis into a crushing hug, then pulls back to thrust a hand out toward Harry. “You must be Harry Styles,” he guesses.

“The one and only,” Harry confirms with a smile. “Happy to be here. Love the jacket. Gucci?”

Nick sports a red leather jacket, embroidered with a bold floral pattern in a variety of bright colours. He lifts his arms and twirls in a circle. “Like that? Gucci, indeed. Love a man who knows his designers.”

Harry elbows Louis directly in the stomach, and Louis doubles over with a loud grunt. Harry stifles a laugh. “An important quality,” he agrees.

“Alright, mate?” Nick directs his question toward Louis, whose eyes could shoot daggers through Harry, if he weren’t skillfully avoiding eye contact.

“Alright, yeah.”

“So tell me,” Nick prompts. “When’s the tour start? The states, yeah?”

Louis swallows a sip of his beer, nodding. “Next week, actually. A week from today. We leave next Thursday.”

“Where’s the first show?”

“New York City. Starting on the East Coast and working our way west.”

Nick lifts his eyebrows. “New York, huh? Been too long since I’ve been there. How about you, Harry?”

“Actually, I was in New York when I was hired to work for Louis, so,” Harry shrugs. “Not too long.”

“Not being too difficult for you, is he?” Nick teases, nudging Louis with his elbow. “I know he’s a pain in the arse sometimes.”

Harry chuckles. “He’s been alright so far, I think.”

“Cheers to that!” cries Louis, and he clinks his pint against Harry’s, tossing back a gulp. “Get the fuck out of here, Nick, go enjoy your party.”

“Cheers to growing old!” Nick yells. “Good to see you, mate. And Harry, lovely to meet you, you fine piece of arse. Don’t cut your hair, okay?”

Harry barks a laugh, unconsciously reaching up to card his fingers through his shoulder-length curls. “Don’t worry,” he assures Nick. “I’m not planning on it anytime soon.”

Nick points a finger at Louis and waggles his eyebrows before disappearing into the crowd on the dance floor.

Louis steps back up to the bar, and Zayn scurries over to him in less than three seconds. “Two rum and sodas, please.” Harry makes a disgruntled sound on Louis' right side, and Louis sighs, pressing two fingers to his temple. “Sorry. Does a cosmopolitan come with a paper umbrella?”

Zayn narrows one eye. “Um. Yes?”

“Okay, excellent. One rum and soda, and one cosmopolitan, please.”

When Zayn slides their drinks across the counter, Louis snatches the umbrella from Harry’s drink and tucks it behind Harry’s ear. He presses the bright pink cocktail into his chest. “Better?”

Harry nods, grinning as he takes the cocktail from Louis. “Better.”

Louis rolls his eyes, but his smile is soft and affectionate as he takes Harry by the crook of his elbow and declares as he lifts his drink into the air, “Come on, Curly, let’s mingle.”

* * * * *

As it turns out, mingling mostly consists of Harry sipping on cosmos and caipirinhas while elite party guests flock to Louis' side, fumbling for a few moments of his undivided attention. Some guests—tall blonde models, mostly—tip their heads back and laugh loudly with pink-stained mouths open, and their hands linger a little too long on Louis' arm. One girl, swaying unsteadily on her feet, begins to flatten her body against him, her mouth searching below his jaw. Harry bites down on a snappy remark, but Louis simply smooths a hand over her hair and whispers “come here, love,” as he helps her over to the plush grey sofa in the corner. He asks one of Nick's friends who is lounging on the sofa to keep an eye on her, and not to let her have another drink.

When Louis returns to Harry’s side and curls his fingers around the handle of his pint glass, Harry shakes his head, eyes fixed on Louis. “You’re incredible.”

A surprised sound escapes Louis' lips as he turns to look at Harry, one eyebrow raised. “Me?”

“Yeah,” Harry replies. “You haven’t had a moment’s peace tonight. Everyone wants to talk to you, and yet somehow, you still treat every person like there’s no one else you’d rather talk to. And that girl,” Harry gestures toward the model on the sofa, who has blessedly dozed off with her head pressed into the armrest, “she was all over you. You didn’t have to be kind to her.”

Louis shrugs, and swallows a gulp of his beer. “We’ve all had a few too many once or twice, Hazza. ‘S no different.”

And, well. Harry’s always been a relatively confident person. He’s comfortable in his skin and knows damn well that he’s known for his quick humour and clever charm. But tonight, as he watches Louis schmooze A-list award-winning musicians and actors, watches him charm the pants right off Kate Moss and Cara Delevingne, and reduce David Beckham to giggles—yes, _giggles_ —Harry has the distinct realization that Louis is just _so much_ more than Harry could ever hope to be.

Louis is the kind of person who owns places and people and things, and people fight for his attention, but he is still gentle with drunk blonde models who hurl themselves at him and he still loves Notting Hill and cries when he worries he isn’t living life to the fullest. Which Harry finds preposterous because he can’t think of a single person who has met Louis and hasn’t come away the better for it.

“When I was younger, my mum...she used to say, ‘For the next five minutes, the person in front of me is the most important person in the world.’” Harry leans an elbow on the bar, smoothing his palm over the cool surface. “I think about that all the time.”

Louis smiles gently, placing his hand over top of Harry’s. He strokes the back of Harry’s hand with the pad of his thumb. “Your mum said that?”

Harry nods. “Yep. Always.” 

“What was her name?”

“Anne,” Harry answers. 

“Anne sounds like a wise woman.”

Harry doesn’t know whether to say _She was_ , or _Thank you_ , or _I wish you could have met her_ , and maybe that’s because all of those things are true all at once. He smiles back at Louis over the rim of his glass.

“Louis Fucking Tomlinson!” comes a shout from behind them. 

Louis glances over his shoulder and a wide grin splits his face in two. “Ed Bloody Sheeran!” 

“What the fuck are you doing here? Thought you’d be in the states!” Ed cries, clapping Louis on the back with a strong hand.

“Another week yet,” Louis explains. He tugs Harry closer by the crook of his elbow. “This is Harry.”

“Lovely to meet you, Harry,” Ed grins, offering a crushing handshake. Wild, fiery red hair sticks up in seven different directions around his head and curls behind his ears. “You taking good care of my mate, here?” he asks with a nod toward Louis.

“Only the best,” Harry assures him.

“Does he talk in his sleep?” Ed stage-whispers. “I feel like he would be the type.”

“Does he—what?” Harry laughs nervously. “I don’t know.”

Louis chokes on his beer, his eyes widening. “Um, Ed,” he blurts out. “Harry is my _wardrobe stylist_.”

Ed’s eyes bulge with laughter, and he presses a hand to his chest as he chuckles. “Shit, mate, That’s a bloody shame. You're really not—?”

“ _No_ ,” Harry and Louis chime in unison.

“Well, fine, then. Harry, Louis' not-boyfriend, tell me about yourself.”

Harry turns to lean his back against the bar. “I'm originally from Cheshire. I studied law at the University of Manchester but, like, it wasn't for me, you know? So on a whim, I applied for an internship under Niall Horan's lead wardrobe stylist.” He stirs his little black straw through the pink liquid of his drink, watching it swirl in the centre. “I figured, hey, I love fashion, why not give it a go? And,” he shrugs, “the rest is history. As they say.”

Ed makes an elaborate hand signal at Zayn across the bar, and Zayn lines up a round of electric blue shots. “And now you're working for this twat, hey?” Ed says with a toss of his head toward Louis.

Harry chuckles. “You could say that.”

When Ed hands them their shots, Harry's vision is already beginning to swim around the edges and he's leaning heavy on the bar, but he tosses it back and follows easily when Louis drags him toward the dance floor. 

In the centre of the room, sweaty bodies are packed tightly together, and everyone moves to the same throbbing rhythm. Nick stands in the centre, his hands above his head, swaying his hips as guests around him hoot and cheer. Harry is pressed close between Louis and Ed, and he slings his left arm over Louis' shoulder, draped from his neck as he dances to the music that vibrates through the room. Louis is grinning at him as he moves, the coloured lights reflecting off of his teeth. 

“You're so embarrassing,” Louis teases with a finger to Harry's side. 

Harry giggles, his body folding at the point of impact as he pulls away from Louis. “I'm just _feeling_ the music, Lou,” he explains, dragging one hand down his torso, maintaining eye contact with Louis for the entirety of the motion.

Louis drags his teeth over his bottom lip and his gaze darkens momentarily. Then, as quickly as the change came over him, his eyes snap back up to Harry's and he draws him in with a hand to his waist. 

Louis tucks his face into the space between Harry's jawline and his neck, and whispers, “Come here. I just saw someone I want you to meet.”

“Who is it?” Harry asks, his voice hurried and excited.

“You'll see, come here,” Louis insists. 

Pulling Harry by the arm, Louis leads him across the dance floor. In the far corner, Louis points to a row of red stools, and murmurs “Over there, on the right.”

Sitting on the far right stool is a woman with long black hair, twisted into a silky ponytail. She wears a tight black mini-dress with a plunging neckline, and a fitted white blazer is left unbuttoned over top. She holds a glass of champagne between three painted fingers with a practiced carelessness, and her massive gold hoop earrings glitter in the strobe lights from the dance floor.

Harry grips Louis' bicep so tightly that Louis gasps and pulls away, rubbing his arm. “Is that—”

“Yes,” Louis replies, his voice hushed.

“Am I about to meet—”

“ _Yes_.”

“ _Louis_ ,” Harry hisses. “You have to warn me about these things, I can’t just—I can’t just go casually introduce myself to the _queen of pop_.”

“Go,” Louis urges, pressing a palm to the small of Harry’s back to push him gently forward. “She loves cute things like puppy dogs and baby chicks and you. She’ll love you.”

“What should I say?”

“Whatever you want to say, you idiot. Since when does Harry Styles get nervous?”

“I don't know. Can't you introduce me?” Harry whines. He's still holding on to Louis' arm as if he'd surely float away if he were to let go. 

Louis turns his gaze toward Harry, who does his best job of putting on a sweet, pleading face. Louis rolls his eyes, softened with affection, and taps the paper umbrella behind Harry's ear with his pointer finger. “Fine,” he concedes. 

Harry grins, pulling Louis in for a quick squeeze.

Louis steps up to the woman and taps her lightly on the shoulder. She turns around to face Louis, her features warped with momentary confusion, but then realization spreads over the sharp angles of her face.

“Louis!” she exclaims. “How are you, babe?”

“Lovely, lovely. How have you been, Janet? How is The Voice treating you?”

And _oh my god_ , Harry feels like he's going to pass out. Louis is on a first name basis with Janet Jackson and it doesn't even look like it fazes him.

“Very well, yeah. I'm loving it.” Janet leans around Louis to point a long, black fingernail at Harry, who has adjusted his leopard-print Burberry blazer ten times since she began to speak. “Is this your Harry?”

Harry's fingers still on the buttons of his blazer. The words _your Harry_ trickle warm through the inside of his rib cage like a hot cup of earl grey. A warm tea daydream. The idea of belonging, somehow, to Louis is a comfortable one, and Harry doesn't have to stretch to imagine a time when he might enjoy something like that. He supposes that he already belongs to him in a way, as his wardrobe stylist, his best friend. It fits, somehow, like a pair of wool socks or an old sweater.

“My, um. My stylist, yes,” Louis answers, and the warmth in Harry's chest runs cold. 

Cups of tea are always gone long before you think they ought to be. Daydreams, too. 

Harry needs another shot.

“Babe, I can't believe how much I love your blazer. Leopard print, so bold. I love animal prints. And to pair it with a sheer shirt underneath?” Janet grins. “Brilliant. Harry Styles, it's a pleasure.” 

She offers a hand, which Harry gratefully accepts. “Thank you so much, ma'am. I can't—I'm so happy to meet you.”

“Janet, darling. Please,” she smiles.

“Janet,” Harry replies with a wide grin. “How are you enjoying The Voice? I have only had time to catch an episode here and there, but when I found out you were going to be a judge,” he pauses, hesitant to verbalize his secret fan-boy tendencies. But he's starstruck, fragile, and halfway intoxicated so he gracefully says, “I almost shit in my pants.”

Janet tosses her head back to laugh, fanning the fingers of her free hand across her chest. Harry is shocked he doesn't hear Louis cackling from behind him, so he turns to look for him, but he has disappeared.

“It's a lot of fun, yeah, I love it.” Janet plucks a green and gold glass bottle from the table in front of the stools. “Champagne?”

Harry nods. “Please.”

Janet pours him a glass, and when the bubbling liquid catches the green lights from the dance floor, it looks like a glass of tiny glittering emeralds. Harry washes down half the glass in one gulp.

“The most fun part, and I know you'll appreciate this,” Janet explains, “is the outfits. Red carpet occasions are few and far between, and tours require a limited wardrobe. But television,” she continues, lowering the pitch of her voice and leaning in closer to Harry, “everyday's a new day.”

“Do you have stylists?”

“Why, are you looking?” Janet winks.

Harry smiles shyly and ducks his head to look down at his shoes, the gold tips of his boots pointing inward.

“I'm just kidding, babe,” Janet reassures him. “We do have stylists on the show, but I don't have any of my own. I'd like to, but I have to find the right person.”

Harry nods. “Of course. When it works, you know it.”

“Definitely,” Janet agrees. “If you're ever looking, give me a call,” she says with a wink.

Harry thanks God or Jesus or whatever force of nature is responsible for restraining him from passing out cold on the floor. Dressing Janet Jackson? His pop-music-loving heart flutters at the thought.

“So how is it, working for Louis?” Janet asks.

“Oh, it's so good,” Harry hums, happy—eager, even—to talk about Louis. “He has such great taste, it amazes me sometimes. He's picky about his personal wardrobe, but he's flexible when it comes to public occasions. Always willing to experiment. That's pretty much how he is in all of life, though,” he admits. “He's so fun to dress.”

“He’s choosy, that one,” Janet agrees, spreading her fingers across the rim of her champagne glass. “But I love him for it.”

“Don't we all.”

When Louis returns, Harry and Janet are side by side on the grey sofa. Janet's legs are crossed and she leans toward Harry, who is lying comfortably back on the pillows, one arm propped behind him.

“Lou!” Harry cries, patting the empty space next to him. “Come sit!”

Louis does, and when he sinks into the cushions beside Harry, Harry pulls him closer with one arm, ruffling his hair.

“Sorry I disappeared, I thought I'd give you your moment,” Louis whispers in Harry's ear.

“Oh it's _fine_ , babe,” Harry slurs, drawing out his vowels. 

Louis giggles. “You're so drunk.”

“I am,” Harry agrees. And gloriously so.

“Oi, Janet, you were supposed to be watchin' Curly, here.”

Janet waves him off with a flick of her wrist. “I'm no one's mum, darling. Have a lovely night, you two. Pleasure meeting you, Harry.”

Harry and Louis mumble their agreement, and Janet prances away.

Louis' head is nearly resting on Harry's shoulder, so when Harry leans to his side, his head lands on top of Louis'. Neither of them move. 

“Where did you go off to?” Harry mumbles.

“Went to talk to Ed. Forced me to do more of those awful blue shots.”

Louis giggles, and Harry's body shakes with it.

“I think Janet offered me a job.”

“What?” Louis shouts.

Harry is giggling as he presses an index finger to Louis' lips. “Shhh. Don't scream.”

Louis groans. “Hazza, we're at a party. Besides. Janet can't have you, because you're mine.”

Suddenly, a great cheer explodes from the crowd on the dance floor. A rich voice echoes from the speakers. 

_"Now I've had the time of my life..."_

Harry bolts upright, and emits a high-pitched squeal. “I _love_ [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o3NndBTqC3Y).”

He glances at Louis, fully expecting to catch his teasing laughter, but Louis is just nodding along, grinning gleefully.

_"No, I never felt like this before."_

“Come on,” says Harry. He shoves off from the couch and extends a hand back toward Louis.

“What?” asks Louis.

“Dance with me.”

Louis hesitates, glancing between Harry's hand and his waiting grin.

“Come _on_ , Lou.”

_"Yes, I swear, it's the truth..."_

“Oh, what the hell,” Louis says, and he places his hand in Harry's.

Laughing madly, Harry draws back, lifting their joined hands into the air. 

_"And I owe it all to you."_

Together, they float across the floor toward the centre of the room. They wobble pleasantly on their feet, and sway their hips with both hands joined in the air. 

When the chorus comes, the room belts out the tune, and the floor shakes with the volume of it. 

“I had the time of my life,” Harry sings, and it sounds more like yelling and feels more like flying. 

“I've never felt like this before.”

Louis ducks under Harry's arm and twirls once, twice, three times. At the end of the third twirl, Louis missteps and begins to fall forward.

“Yes, I swear, it's the truth,” the room sings. 

Louis reaches out for Harry, and tries to steady himself by holding on to Harry's shoulders. He trips over his feet, and falls head-on into Harry's chest. 

Harry is laughing hysterically as he catches Louis, winding his arms around his small torso to steady him.

Louis giggles, too, and sings along into Harry's neck.

“And I owe it all to you.”

* * * * *

When Harry wakes up the next morning, it’s with groaning and grumbling and a dull throbbing in his head.

He rolls over and presses his face into his gold satin pillowcase. The smell of sweat and alcohol-tinged morning breath wafts up to his nose as he breathes in and out through the silky material. Flinging one arm out from under the plush white duvet, he gropes blindly for his cell phone on his bed side table. When he knocks over a bottle with a noisy clatter, he flinches, startled by the sound. He lifts his head, rubbing one eye with the back of his hand, to see what fell.

On the table is a small white bottle of painkillers, which he knocked over on top of a note scribbled hastily on bright orange paper. He plucks the note out from under the pill bottle and rolls over onto his back to read it.

_Morning, sleeping beauty. Here’s a little something for the headache you’re bound to have. Lucky for you, I’m the greatest best mate there is, and I got you home in one very drunk piece. Text me when you leave to pick up Niall. xxxx L_

Harry inhales deeply, his stomach muscles contracting as he hauls himself up to a sitting position. The sheer curtains flutter into the room as a breeze whispers through the window, and Harry shivers slightly as he pushes the duvet off of his torso and swings his feet onto the floor.

First breakfast, then the airport to pick up Niall.

Harry shuffles through his drawers and selects a pair of dark wash jeans and a white button-down top with thin navy blue stripes, which he buttons to his navel. He shakes out his hair, winding a few strands around his fingers to set the curls, then changes his mind and sweeps it into a high bun. 

On his way out of the room, he reaches for the orange note lying on the bed. He reads it a second time, then folds it up, and tucks it into his back pocket.

* * * * *

“‘Lo, boys,” Louis chirps brightly as he ducks into Liam’s silver Audi, balancing a tray of Starbucks cups in his right hand. He transfers the tray to his lap as he shifts in his seat, then pulls the door closed with a slam. With his left hand, he lightly pats Harry’s knee. “Alright this morning, mate?”

Harry groans, sliding a palm across his face. He leans his head back against the headrest and employs every ounce of strength he possesses _not_ to imagine the embarrassing things he undoubtedly blurted out last night while he was in a shamefully intoxicated state. He should blame it on the endless supply of fruity drinks he kept plastered to his palm all night long, but he blames Ed instead.

“Those bloody blue shots, Lou, they did me in.”

“Ah.” Louis is smirking, and he shoots Harry a knowing look. “The blue shots, eh?”

“Hey, Liam,” Harry calls up to the front seat. “How about some music?”

Louis chuckles, plucking a straw from the tray and tapping it against his thigh to open the paper. “Was it the shots, then, that made you say that thing about—”

“ _Liam_! Press play, please!”

“—about wanting to lick peach rum from my—”

“From your collarbones! Yes, I _know_ , fuck, can we just, can we move on, please?”

Louis chokes on a shocked burst of laughter, clapping his hand over his mouth to catch the sound. “You _remember_ that?”

“I wish I didn’t,” Harry groans. Because, yeah, he remembers that part. The part just a moment after Louis steadied himself after falling into Harry during “I’ve Had The Time Of My Life,” the part where Louis' collarbones looked utterly sinful in his half-unbuttoned Givenchy shirt and Harry suffered a momentary lack of judgment. At least, judging by Louis' reaction, that was the worst of it. At least he hadn’t admitted anything more private.

Liam is chuckling in the front seat, and Harry reaches around the headrest to swat him lightly over the head. “Shut up,” Harry mumbles.

“‘S alright,” Louis reassures him, giving the loose bun piled on top of his head a light squeeze. “I’m just taking the piss, love. I brought Starbucks,” Louis offers.

“Peace offering, I like it,” Liam tosses back over his shoulder. “Give it here.”

Louis pops a cup out of the tray and slides a stirrer through the small opening at the top. He passes it up to Liam, whose grin reminds Harry of an excited golden retriever puppy offered a treat from his beloved owner’s palm.

“I got you an Americano because I know you take your coffee strong,” Louis explains. “And for you,” he turns to face Harry, handing him a milky white iced drink and a straw, “I picked something you've never tried before, but I think you'll like it. Plus,” he adds with a shrug of his shoulders, “I know how you are about hot drinks when you're hungover, so iced it is.”

When Harry takes a sip, he can tell that Louis even remembered to ask for soy milk and it's all just so _Louis_ that Harry could cry. Either that, or the drink Louis ordered for him is just that delicious.

“What is this?” Harry asks. “It's incredible.”

“It's an iced white chocolate mocha, with three pumps of hazelnut syrup,” Louis explains, taking a sip of his own cappuccino. 

Harry closes his eyes, releasing a moan of pleasure, earning a kick in the shin from Louis. As much as Louis teases him, though, he always indulges him.

“You get creepy when you think something tastes good,” Louis mocks him, wrinkling his nose in feigned disgust.

“Creative flavour combinations make me horny.”

“Harry!” Liam cries from the front seat. “How many times do I need to tell you not to say you’re horny in front of me?”

“It freaks him out,” Harry leans across the back seat to whisper in Louis' ear.

“It freaks me out!” Liam declares

Harry and Louis dissolve into giggles, and Louis leans forward, covering his face with his hands.

“What are you laughing at?” Liam whines, his voice shooting up in pitch.

“Are you kink-shaming Harry’s Starbucks kink?” Louis challenges, swallowing his laughter.

“ _Kink_?” Liam glances at the white cup in his hand, makes an uncomfortable face, then gingerly places his cup into the cup holder in the centre console.

“Oh, god, _yeah_ ,” Harry moans. “ _Fuck_ , baby, I want your hot foamed milk in my mouth.”

Liam accidentally knocks his coffee cup over with his elbow, swearing under his breath as he fumbles under the passenger seat for his phone. He snatches it from the floor, frantically groping for the aux cord.

Louis is wheezing with laughter as he joins in. “Yes. Yes. Oh _god_ yeah. Squirt your whipped cream on my _face_ , daddy,” he pants.

Liam makes a gagging motion, pressing play on his phone and turning the music up so loud that Harry can’t even hear his own hysterical laughter.

Across the car, Louis is wrinkly-eyed, bursting into a thousand glittering pieces, which float warm and golden and bubbly through the stuffy air of the back seat. Harry would dedicate the rest of the life to the task of making Louis laugh if he could, and he feels drunk on the power it gives him.

Harry peels his gaze away from Louis, looking out the window at the buildings that line the motorway, blurring like brush strokes on the horizon as the car speeds past. He nods his head along to the beat of the music that screams from the speakers, and begins to worry he may be losing his mind.

* * * * *

_I hate airports_ , Harry thinks as he, Louis, and Liam press through crowds of rushing travelers lugging oversized suitcases across sterile tiled floors. They’re nearing the gate, and the air smells like cheap takeaway food and cleaning fluid.

“I love airports,” Louis murmurs and he looks so small and silly, the way his tiny frame is drowning in his navy Adidas jacket with the hood up so that he can travel undetected through the terminals, but his expression is so serious and so heavy with thought and meaning that Harry pauses to urge the train of thought along.

“You do?” he asks.

Louis nods, peering up at Harry from behind his hood, and Louis can’t help but giggle at how young it makes him look. “Don’t you?” Louis replies.

“I don’t know,” Harry shrugs. “It all feels so chaotic to me. I like flying, but inside the airport, I don’t know. Everything is hurried and time moves in a weird way.”

“Time doesn’t exist in airports, mate,” Louis explains as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I mean sure, there’s departure and arrival times, but look around,” he says, gesturing toward the shops and restaurants that line the spiderweb of halls from one terminal to the next. “These stores never close. There’s always someone around. And trust me, when you’re jet-lagged and wide awake at godforsaken hours, the nice old bloke behind the counter at the duty-free shop who’s awake at the same time as you is surprisingly comforting. No place experiences four A.M. like an airport.” Louis shrugs, tugging at his zipper, fidgeting as he often does during one of his longer speeches. “It’s the reason I miss flying commercial sometimes.”

“I guess that just feels eerie to me,” Harry admits, and he imagines that probably no one experiences four A.M. like Louis. After all, Louis is the personification of the single first ray of sunlight on the very cusp of a new day, the promise of a fresh new beginning to come, the excitement of light after a long night of dark silence.

“We should sneak away and fly commercial while we’re on tour,” Louis whispers.

“No,” Liam snaps from the other side of Louis. His brow is set, his expression stern.

Harry and Louis both turn to glance at him, fighting back giggles. Liam has been in a sour mood ever since they ganged up on him in the car. Harry doesn't know how much of it is genuine frustration and how much of it is Liam being moody and dramatic due to lack of sleep, but either way, Harry knows to give him his space. Harry loves Liam dearly, like the brother he never had, but they bicker like brothers, too.

“Yes, father,” Louis says sarcastically, chuckling when Liam shoots him a look that says _watch yourself_.

When they reach Niall's gate, Niall is already waiting for them, his hair covered by an Ireland snapback and his eyes shaded by a pair of sunglasses. When Harry sees him, he takes off running, his arms flung out wide. He nearly bowls Niall over when they collide, a giggling ball of energy and joy and excitement.

When Harry releases him, Niall reaches for Liam, who winds his arms around Niall's waist and lifts him off the ground. “I'm so glad you're here. These fuckers,” he mumbles with a pointed gesture toward Harry and Louis, “have been torturing me all morning.”

“Niall, this is Louis,” Harry introduces them, drawing Louis closer by a hand on his elbow.

“Sick, I'm so happy to finally meet ya. You're an absolute legend,” Niall grins. Louis offers a hand, but Niall bypasses his gesture and pulls him into a tight hug. “I'm a hugger, hope ya don't mind.”

“Course not,” Louis assures him, clapping his back twice with an open palm. “I've heard plenty about you.”

“All bad things, I hope,” Niall winks exaggeratedly, sticking out his tongue.

“Very,” Louis confirms.

“Now, what have you been doing to my Liam?” Niall asks, slinging arm around Liam's neck as they begin to walk back toward the car. 

“They were making kink jokes in the car on the way here,” Liam reports, and his degree of whiny-ness would arouse jealousy in a two year old. 

“Kink jokes?” Niall repeats, incredulous. “Mind if I don't ask?”

“Fine,” Liam sighs. “Just sit in the front seat with me on the way back.”

“Sure, mate. If I'm honest, though, I thought you'd be used to Harry's sex jokes by now.”

“It's worse with this twat around,” Liam groans, gesturing to Louis, who preens at the accusation. “You don't know the half of it.”

Harry offers his open palm, which Louis slaps, grinning as they high-five to being partners in crime.

When they've settled into their seats in Liam's car and Niall's luggage has been stored in the back, Niall turns his head, the blue-ish glow of his phone screen reflecting on his face. “So where to for dinner tonight, mates?” he asks.

“Can we do lunch instead?” Liam requests. “I'm ready to die of starvation.”

“Sure,” Niall shrugs. He turns around in his seat to face the back. “You okay with that, Hazza?”

“Works for me,” Harry confirms. 

“Louis, you're welcome to join us. My treat,” Niall offers.

“Thanks so much,” Louis replies politely, “but I'm afraid I can't make it. I have a papped outing this afternoon.”

Harry reflexively clenches his jaw, and tucks his hands under his thighs to keep from balling them into white-knuckled fists. 

“Oh, no problem.” Niall is cool and casual, and he punctuates his sentence with a wave of his hand.

When they drop Louis off at his house and Niall reiterates how tickled he is to have met him, Harry is left alone in the back seat and he can't shake the anxiety disguised as the tension in his jaw.

He doesn't know why, but he hopes Niall and Liam don't ask him about work at lunch. Hopefully they don't ask about Louis at all.

* * * * *

When the waitress has taken their orders and collected their menus, and Liam has shamelessly trailed her path all the way back to the kitchen, mesmerized by the sway of her hips, Niall clears his throat and steeples his fingers together, leaning forward on the table.

“So, Hazza,” he begins. “How is it working for Louis now?”

 _God_ fucking _damn it_.

“It's alright,” Harry replies, grasping for words. “Louis is...yeah, he's great. We got on from the word go. But it's, uh,” he pauses, clears his throat, “I have a little less freedom when it comes to outfit selection.”

“Mmm,” Niall nods, signifying his understanding. “Image stuff, I'm guessing?”

“Have you heard?”

“Industry secret. Or, not-so-secret, I guess.”

“Ah.” Harry picks at the paper wrapper that his straw came in, tearing it into minuscule pieces and piling them in the dip of his spoon.

“You styled his outing today,” Liam points out. “Is he going to be papped with a girl?”

“Yeah, another mystery blonde,” Harry grumbles bitterly.

Niall groans, taking a sip of water from the crystal glass in front of him. “That's promo season for ya.”

“Why?”

Niall tilts his head, his expression quizzical. “Why what?”

“Why does promo season have to be like that?” Harry asks.

“Oh, I don't know, mate,” Niall answers with a shake of his head. “Just how it is, I guess.”

And okay. That's all well and good for Niall who can shrug things off, Niall who takes an eternity and a half to become angry. But it's not well and good for Harry, who is ready to crumble under the weight of the knowledge that for three months, he has spun lies to millions of people about who his best friend is.

“No, see, that's not a fucking good enough answer for me.”

Liam and Niall exchange a worried glance, and Liam reaches over to place a soothing hand over Harry's tight fist. “Harry?”

“What, does this not bother you?” Harry snaps.

“Well, of course it does,” Liam flinches. “But...I think it's hurting you more than it's hurting me.”

“The closet is such _bullshit_ , you know?” Harry explains, his voice desperate. “There's nothing more stifling than that. Than the suppression of who you _are_.”

Liam rubs circles on the back of Harry's hand with his thumb, nodding his head to urge him on.

“And, like, I know it's not going to last forever,” Harry continues, “but it's really wearing on him. You should have seen him after he wore that rainbow tank at the Brits. He was a new person.”

“There's some separation between work and real life, though,” Niall assures Harry. “At least his real friends and family know.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Harry concedes, but only because he doesn't know how to express in words the feeling of watching Louis—bright, sparkly, effervescent Louis—be forced to shrink himself. It's like every colour of the rainbow trying to fit into one single shade of brown. His fans say he's beautiful, precious, wonderful, and they call him a lovely shade of yellow, and it's all so frustrating because only Harry knows that Louis is really _gold_.

“You know,” Liam murmurs, smoothing a hand over Harry's wrist, “you don't have to keep this job if it's too hard for you.”

“He's right,” Niall agrees. “The closet is fucked, and you can always leave if you need to.”

“I heard Janet Jackson offered you a job,” Liam smiles with a gentle elbow to Harry's side.

“She did,” Harry chuckles, but there's little humour in it. “I don't know, I don't think I can leave.”

“Why not?” Niall prods.

“I just can't,” Harry sighs. “I need to be here for Louis. He said it's different with me.”

“What's different?” Liam asks.

 _Everything_ , Harry wants to say. _It's different for me, too._

“I just feel like we can change the situation. I can't explain it. It's just a feeling I have.” Harry tightens and releases his fists, feels the tension build and then dissipate. “He has the same feeling.”

“Okay,” Niall says with a sigh. He watches Harry, his expression etched with concern. “I just don't want to see you keep a job you're morally opposed to for the sake of a friendship.”

For some reason, Harry's jaw clenches at the word 'friendship.' “How could I leave because it's too hard for me when _he's_ the one being closeted?”

“Fair enough,” Niall agrees.

Harry sighs, and picks up his spoon, dumping the little shreds of his straw wrapper onto the tablecloth.

“We're here for you mate, okay? Especially me, since I'm here every day,” Liam offers.

“Thanks, mate,” Harry nods.

“Love you, you bloody good-hearted man,” Niall assures Harry affectionately, mussing his hair.

When the waitress brings their food, it's almost a normal lunch, just like old times. Liam flirts with the cute blonde waitress so blatantly that Harry and Niall blush an even deeper red than the waitress does, Harry spills sauce on his brand new Gucci jacket as he always tends to do, and Niall earns an odd look from the waiter when he requests a cheap brand of beer in what everyone knows is the poshest restaurant in London.

Except that between sips of beer in Niall's case, and red wine in Liam's, both of them watch Harry with worried eyes, as if he were an alarm that could go off at any moment.

But it's almost like old times. Almost.

* * * * *

[Four Walls - Broods](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-tTWOf3Pm6Q)

“I thought you hated turkey,” Harry giggles into his phone. He’s sprawled out on the sofa, and “Chopped” is playing, muted, on the telly screen. Evening sunlight drips lazily from the window.

“Well, I _do_ ,” Louis explains on the other end. “But it was a turkey sandwich with _avocado_ , and I know you love shit with avocado on it so I wanted to order it so I would be able to tell you whether it was good.”

“That makes no sense.”

“Does too, Hazza,” Louis protests. Harry can hear the sound of a car starting in the background, and he assumes Louis must have called him on his way home. “And it was good.”

“If you like turkey,” Harry clarifies.

“Yes. See? You’re welcome. It was a good place, we should go sometime in the next few days before we leave for tour.”

“Mmm, we should,” Harry agrees. He shifts onto his side, resting his head in his palm, and tugs his blanket up his torso. “So it was good today?”

“Yeah. It was fine, yeah. The girl was nice. Her name is Julie. She works in, uh…” Louis trails off, and Harry waits patiently for his train of thought to return to speed. “Sorry,” Louis continues. “I got distracted. I’m driving. But yeah, she works in music production, actually. We went out for afternoon drinks after lunch, and then she gave me a tour of her studio. It’s late now, innit?”

Harry nods, even though he knows Louis can’t see. “Like eight or so, yeah.”

“Julie got a cosmopolitan and I asked if I could keep her umbrella,” Louis announces proudly. “I think we should start a collection on the road, like you have at your flat.”

“Sounds good,” Harry says, pressing a fist to his smiling lips. “Louis?”

“Yes, Hazza?” Louis chuckles.

“I have an avocado joke.”

“Have you been thinking about telling me this joke since I mentioned the turkey and avocado sandwich?” 

“Yes,” Harry admits shyly.

“Okay, let’s have it, then,” Louis urges, laughter coloring his voice.

“Knock knock.”

“Who’s there?”

“Avocado,” Harry giggles.

Through the phone, Harry can hear little puffs of air as Louis laughs fondly through his nose. “Avocado who?”

“Avo-ca-do cold.”

Laughter filters through the tiny speakers and lodges itself directly, sugary sweet and feathery light, into Harry’s chest. “A cold? You poor sick little thing,” Louis teases. “Shouldn’t you be getting to bed early, then?”

“I actually am quite sleepy,” Harry confides. It’s only eight o’clock, but with the mention of sleep, a yawn tickles at the back of his throat and he tosses his head back, his mouth stretching wide.

“I can tell,” Louis chuckles. “Turn off ‘Chopped’ and get into bed, yeah?”

“How did you know I was watching that?” Harry gasps, but really, he stopped being surprised by Louis' knowledge of minuscule details a long time ago.

“It’s a Friday night and you’re in your flat alone,” Louis comments. “I’m good with my inductive reasoning.”

“I think it’s deductive reasoning,” Harry corrects him through another yawn.

“Whatever, smarty pants,” Louis dismisses him. “Thanks for the laughs. G’night, petit avocat.”

When Harry hangs up, he’s smiling quietly to himself because Louis, silly Louis, affectionate Louis just actually ended a phone conversation by calling Harry a little avocado in French.

While he is giggling about the fact that ‘petit avocat’ also means ‘little lawyer’, and picturing himself in a ridiculously plain black suit every day as a miniature sized legal professional—he had studied law in uni before dropping out, after all—he hears a soft knock at the door to his flat.

Harry calls out “Come in!” without lifting his head from the arm rest. On the telly, a woman with dyed red hair wrapped in a floral headscarf is running from one station to the next, frantically scooping a lumpy yellow substance from a tin can.

The door opens with a soft clicking sound, and squeaks quietly on its hinges as Liam opens it just wide enough to slip through. “Hey,” he murmurs as he closes the door gently behind him, and it’s welcome and familiar like the first mug of coffee at home after months of cheap aeroplane coffee in paper cups.

“Hey,” Harry echoes, sitting up on the sofa and smoothing the blanket over his lap. He pats the empty space beside him. “What brings you over here?”

“Just wanted to check on you. I was worried you’d be shaken up from our conversation this afternoon at lunch.”

“Oh, yeah, I’m good.” Harry replies casually. “Just got off the phone with Louis, actually.”

“How was his lunch outing?” Liam asks, arranging himself on the sofa beside Harry.

“Really good. He and the girl hit it off, which is lucky,” Harry answers. He fidgets with the corners of his phone case in his lap, then flattens his palms on either thigh. “Do you want some ice cream?”

Liam laughs, his eyes disappearing under layers of giddy wrinkles. “Do I? Which _flavour_ is the question.”

Harry shoves off of the sofa and pads into the kitchen, the hems of his joggers dragging on the floor where they’re tucked under his heels. He pulls the door to the freezer open and a cloud of cold, wet air spills out. Two cartons of ice cream sit one on top of the other in the far corner.

“I have mint chocolate chip and just plain chocolate,” Harry calls back into the living room.

“Hmm,” Liam considers. “What about a scoop of each?”

“Good choice,” Harry agrees.

Cross-legged on the sofa, Harry and Liam tuck into their bowls of ice cream. When he’s finished, Liam licks the melted green and brown mixture from his spoon, placing it in his bowl on the floor in front of his feet. He turns to Harry, who giggles at the brown outline of dried ice cream around Liam’s bottom lip. Liam wipes it away with the pad of his thumb, then tucks both hands in his lap, sucking in a breath. 

“Okay,” he begins slowly, cautiously. “Harry, listen to me. I know you don’t like to talk about yourself much, but are you willing to talk to me about something?”

He’s right, is what Harry is thinking. He _doesn’t_ like to talk about himself. Especially not in a way that can be interpreted as sad or unhappy or in need of comfort. Ever since his mum passed away, he’s been careful to draw more distinct lines between where he ends and others begin, because every time he told someone about his mum’s death, they became visibly upset, and some of them even cried. Harry would rather let the sadness pool in his stomach where it cannot be seen, despite the ache it gives him, if it saves him the guilt of feeling as though he caused someone else’s sadness. In four years, he’s told only three people about his mum’s death: Niall, Liam, and Louis, and the latter felt more like an accident, a secret that gave itself away in spite of him.

But Liam looks so earnest, with pools of affection and pity for eyes, so Harry concedes.

“Yeah, we can talk.” Harry places his bowl inside Liam’s, and begins to move toward the kitchen to wash them.

“Wait,” Liam calls from behind him. “You can wash those in a minute. Sit with me.”

Reluctantly, Harry lowers himself back down onto the sofa.

“I know this whole job change thing happened like, three months ago,” Liam begins, his voice low and calm. “But I realised I never asked you what you thought about it. When it happened, you know? And like, I assumed it was stressful for you, because—well, how could it not be?” he rambles, his voice picking up speed. “But you were closer to Niall than I was, since you worked with him for so long. And I figured, shit, it’s taken me three months to say anything, but better late than fucking _never_ , right?”

Harry hums, nodding his head, brow furrowed as he sifts through his thoughts. “Um,” he mumbles. “So what are you asking?”

Liam pauses, his eyes scanning the room. He takes a short breath. “I guess…” he says thoughtfully. Then he directs his gaze at Harry. “How was the change for you?”

“Okay,” Harry nods. “Well...unsteady is the word I would probably use. I felt really unsteady. No one likes...change.”

“No, they don't, that’s true. Do you still feel that way?”

“I’m not sure,” Harry admits. “I’ve loved being back in London, living in my flat,” he explains, gesturing around the room with both hands, “and Louis is, like, my best mate.”

“What is it, then?” Liam prods, and his voice is so soft and gentle that Harry can tell he’s treading lightly. This is the kind of thing Harry hates, being treated like he’s fragile. “Is it the closeting?”

“I mean, no—well, yeah,” Harry stammers. “Yeah, that fucking infuriates me sometimes but I do feel like we’re getting somewhere. Simon, he’s on _edge_ , have you noticed? I think he knows his plot has an expiration date.”

“But it’s wearing on Louis.”

“Yeah,” Harry heaves, and his shoulders drop slightly. “It is.”

Liam shifts on the sofa, placing a palm on Harry’s knee. Harry glances up to make eye contact, and Liam is all soft eyes and concern. “What about _you_?” he asks. “What’s wearing on you?”

“What, have I been acting like there’s something wearing on me?”

Liam nods slowly, carefully, and Harry slides two hands across his hair and behind his head, the blanket slipping off his legs and onto the floor. He rests his hands behind his neck for a moment, then drops them into lap again, shaking his head once, twice, and a third time.

“Okay, let’s say that tomorrow, Simon phones you and says ‘That’s it, you’re sacked, pack your bags.’ What would you say?”

“I’d tell him to bugger off, fuck, Liam,” Harry grimaces.

“ _Why_?” Liam asks, and paired with his pointing finger, it’s the kind of question Harry knows is meant to make a point rather than to glean any information.

“I _like_ this job,” Harry replies, impatient.

“Okay, do you like the clothing you have to choose from for Louis' current look? Is this job allowing you to showcase your creativity?”

Harry hesitates, then sighs. “No.”

“Do you like his management team’s business approach? The closeting?”

“No.”

“Do you like the idea of being on tour in the US for six months while your sister and your friends are still in London?”

Harry hangs his head, pressing his fingers into his closed eyes. “No,” he admits, regretful.

“Then?” Liam prompts. “You must like something. What is it? What’s left?”

“I like working with you,” Harry attempts weakly. “You’re a great...a great assistant.”

Liam squeezes Harry’s knee, where his hand still rests. “Where you go, I follow, and you know that. So what are you really staying for?”

Harry rubs his eyes with the heels of his palms, and lifts his head to glance around the room. It’s grown dark outside now, and the silence is so thick it’s almost cumbersome, save for the low hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen. The delicate scent of mint floats up from the bowls at their feet.

“ _Who_ are you staying for, maybe?”

Harry can hear his own breathing, the mocking thump of his own heartbeat in his chest. He is the personification of hesitation as he rolls the hem of his shirt between his fingers and attempts a regular breathing rhythm in the midst of the tension that rolls dense and bulky in the air. He swallows, and it’s the loudest thing he’s heard tonight by far.

“Louis,” he exhales.

Liam reaches for Harry’s hand and squeezes it so tightly that both of their knuckles turn white.

“Is that the answer?” Liam asks, and yeah, it’s the answer and it’s also the question, it’s the thing that’s keeping the moon at bay and the thing that draws the tide ashore. It’s the tune carried in the bird songs at the first light of dawn, it’s the spaces between Harry’s ribs and the thing that draws the stars across the deepening velvet sky, and it’s the beginning and the end of all things.

“I'm in love with him,” Harry breathes, because what else can he do but love him?

“You’re such an idiot, Hazza,” Liam whispers as he circles his arms around Harry’s shoulders and tugs him into his chest. “Such an idiot.”

“I know,” Harry agrees. “I know. I mean, fuck. I _work_ for him.”

“No, no, that’s not what I mean,” Liam replies, stroking a warm palm over Harry’s mangled curls. “I mean you’re an idiot because you thought I couldn’t see.”

“You knew?”

“Of course I knew. You two are like…” Liam turns one palm upward, searching for the words. “...twin stars. Two petals on the same yellow flower.”

Harry exhales through his nose. “How long have you known?”

“Do you remember when we were out having coffee and Simon called? Something about a last minute pap walk?”

Harry nods. “Yes?”

“You went right out to the car and picked out his favourite navy jacket, the only piece in all of the original ten looks he liked, and I just knew. You cared for him so quickly, so easily.”

Groaning, Harry ducks his head, tucking his nose into Liam’s shirt. “You should have told me.”

“You had to figure it out for yourself, babe.” Liam’s voice is hushed, and he continues to stroke the mess of Harry’s hair. “When did you realise?”

“Well…” Harry sniffs. “Now, really. Before, it was just this...this feeling of madness I didn’t have a name for.”

“I’m proud of you,” Liam murmurs into Harry’s curls.

Harry’s chest is tight as he whispers his thanks, and it feels like his head has been pumped full of cold air. He’s thankful to be sitting, to be somewhere quiet, to be circled in Liam’s arms.

“So what now?” Liam wonders, echoing the question that rattles around inside Harry’s skull, and a siren wails in the distance through the walls of his flat, and Harry knows everything and nothing at all.


	2. Part II: Tour Season

**PART II - TOUR SEASON**

**February**

[If You Ever Want To Be In Love - James Bay](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G1Eh-LDFS5Q)

It’s nearly ten o’clock on a Wednesday morning that feels easy and slow. Harry and Gemma have spent the better part of an hour chatting and laughing in the bright, crowded dining room of The Chiltern Firehouse, spearing forkfuls of black truffle scrambled eggs from tiny ceramic white plates. The firehouse-turned-restaurant is lined with narrow windows, which have been thrown open to flood the room with brisk morning air.

Harry is leaving London tomorrow, and Gemma is sipping her tea across the table like it isn’t true.

“And, like, holy fuck, Harry,” she’s rambling through matte wine-coloured lips, “She was wearing the most gorgeous suede boots I’ve ever seen. Versace, can you believe it?”

“Shit,” Harry replies with a low whistle. “What colour?”

“They were black with a red sole, and a gold heel. About this thick.” She holds her thumb and pointer finger approximately four centimetres apart. 

Harry dips his spoon, coated with honey, into his piping hot tea. Steam rises from the surface of his mug, and he lifts it to his lips, holding the spoon off to the side with his thumb, and blows the steam across the rim.

“You know,” he says, lifting a pointer finger. “There’s this blazer in the new Saint Laurent spring collection that would look incredible with those.”

“Is it the black one with the gold medallion?” Gemma claps her hands together, leaning forward slightly in her chair. “Yes, fuck, yes, that would look amazing. With—wait for it—” She separates her hands, holding them both out in front of her, palms facing Harry. “—leather leggings.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Harry groans. “Why can’t I dress Jesy Nelson?”

“Whoever her stylist is, I bow at their feet,” Gemma assures him. “She looked amazing. Describing it in words was a spiritual experience for me.”

Harry places his mug gingerly on the table, watching his sister beaming across from him. “You love your job.”

“I do love my job,” Gemma giggles. “It feels good to finally say that.”

Gemma, like Harry, had entered uni to study law. When she realised she hated law almost as much as she hated many other equally deplorable things such as physics and calculus, she switched to journalism. Two years writing local news for The Telegraph proved mind-numbing and she took the plunge into fashion journalism. And thank god she did, is all Harry can say.

“I bet it does,” Harry grins.

“I love these eggs, too,” Gemma declares, shoving another forkful into her mouth.

“So,” Harry coughs into his fist, shuffling his feet under the table. “We’re at The Chiltern Firehouse.”

“Yes, we are.”

“The poshest breakfast in London.”

“Uh, yes?” Gemma nods slowly, lifting one eyebrow. Harry folds his napkin carefully, placing it on his empty plate. Gemma flicks her dusty dark blonde hair over her shoulder, then points her fork at Harry, bits of egg flying off the end. “What are you getting at?”

Harry drags the spoon in his mug from one side to the other. “We had a deal.”

“We—oh, shit.” Realization flashes in her eyes and Gemma lowers her fork, leaning suddenly back from the table. “Oh, _fuck_.” The fork falls to her plate with a loud clattering sound, and her mouth is molded into a perfectly round ‘o’ shape. “You’re fucking _in love_.”

“You have a terrible mouth, Gem,” Harry mutters with a shake of his head. 

Gemma balls up her napkin and throws it straight at Harry’s chest. It bounces off of his torso and lands on his plate. “I'm a writer. I have a perfectly fine vocabulary, but there's a time and a place. Start fucking talking,” she demands. “It's Louis Tomlinson, isn't it? You're in love with Louis. I _knew_ it.”

Fuck. He's in love with _Louis_. The thought still feels raw and unfamiliar. Startling, almost, and he returns to it over and over again like a tongue to the empty space a lost tooth left behind.

“I, uh...yeah,” Harry murmurs. “I am.” He is. 

Harry isn't sure what he was expecting Gemma's reaction to be, but whatever it was, he wasn't expecting her to clasp her hands beneath her chin, grinning gleefully, and ask in a lilting, dreamy voice, “Tell me about him. What do you love most about him?”

“It's not... He doesn't love me back, Gems.”

“Well, how would you know?”

“I mean, I don't know for _sure_ , I guess, but,” Harry shrugs, rubbing his palms together in his lap, “he's the type to tell people how he feels, and he hasn't said anything to me. Hasn't even hinted, really.”

“Well, fine,” Gemma says with a wave of her arms. “So what if he doesn't feel the same?”

“What do you mean?”

“Does that change how you feel now?”

“Well, no,” Harry admits. “I guess not.”

“So that's it, then,” Gemma says, twirling one strand of hair around her finger. “And fuck if I don't know how to celebrate love when I see it,” she winks, exaggerating the motion. “Now, humour me, and tell me what you love most about him.”

Harry hums quietly, his face softening, deep in thought. He thinks about how generous Louis is, about his enormous, ever-expanding heart for children. He thinks about the way the light plays in his golden strands of hair, and about the way he draws attention to himself like static electricity without even having to try. He thinks, too, about the way he uses humour to cover up heavy things and the way he’s dropped those heavy things at Harry’s feet, almost in spite of himself.

“He’s really brave,” Harry says. 

“Mhmm,” Gemma hums, her eyes flickering back and forth between Harry’s. Her gaze is soft, encouraging.

“And...he’s good, too. He’s so good and gentle, when he wants to be. He could probably get a seven-year-old to eat her broccoli and have her actually thinking it tastes good,” Harry exhales on a laugh. “But shit, he has a temper. I respect him for it, though. I’m so slow to stand up for...well, anything, really. But he has such a profound sense of—of—” He furrows his brow, searching for the words.

“Dignity?” Gemma suggests.

“Maybe,” Harry considers. “Yeah, maybe dignity. But loyalty, too. Like, he’ll stand up for anyone who needs it. Anyone.”

“Justice,” Gemma tries again.

“Yes. Yes, justice. Exactly.”

“He sounds lovely,” Gemma says with an easy smile.

“He is,” Harry nods.

“You know, he's funny, too,” Gemma adds, wagging a finger. “I came across his interview on the Ellen Degeneres show a couple days ago and,” a giggle slips from her lips like a surprise, “he was so funny, he was doing this dance—”

“Oh, god,” Harry groans. “‘Stop the traffic.’”

“‘Let the people through,’” Gemma quotes. She laughs, hitting the table with her palm. “That was so funny. Does he do that a lot?”

Harry rolls his eyes. “Only all the time.”

In his mind, he pictures the beginning of November, three months ago, sipping bitter beers and watching the very same interview with Liam and Sophia in his flat the night he came back to London. ‘Seems nice enough,’ he’d said. He wonders what he would have thought then, had he known what was to come over the next three months. He wonders if he would have even believed it. 

He wouldn’t have changed a single thing, of _that_ he’s certain.

* * * * *

It’s late in the evening when they leave—Harry, Louis, Liam, all piled into the back seat of the Range Rover with laps full of tote bags and heads full of wild, dizzying dreams.

“Your first tour in the US,” Harry muses.

“It’ll take us thirty-six minutes to get to the airport in this traffic,” Liam reads from the glow of his phone. “We’ll make it in plenty of time.”

“Yeah, first tour, and it’s six months long,” Louis whispers. “Can you believe it? Who would have thought…”

Louis trails off, but Harry silently fills in the gaps for him, and low acoustic music swirls through the car. Harry draws a tiny aeroplane with his pointer finger in the condensation that gathers on the cool glass of the window.

He drifts off, then, for the brief remainder of the drive, lulled to sleep by the dull vibration of tires on concrete.

* * * * *

On the jet. Harry’s favourite place to be.

The sun has rolled into the horizon, and a velvety darkness pillows the jet in the sky. The cabin of the jet is silent, save for Liam’s gentle snoring. Louis leans sideways in his seat across from Harry, resting his head on his right arm, which is tucked underneath him. He had protested that he was just resting his eyes, but his eyelids now flutter rhythmically in sleep, framed by his delicate eyelashes. The silence feels heavy, important. 

A cool, blue light lines the edges of the cabin and illuminates the book on Harry’s lap as he flips through the pages. The place where his thumb rests is slightly yellowed on each page from years of flipping through the same way. Beginnings and yet-to-be’s drip like falling stars from the ceiling of the sky that surrounds them, and everything speeds heedlessly forward.

When Harry is halfway through his book and halfway asleep, Louis stirs in his seat. He sniffles a little, pushing his blanket off his shoulders and lifting his head to peer at Harry, squinty eyes and all. “Whatcha readin’?” he mumbles.

Harry lowers the book to his lap. “On the Road.”

Louis rubs his eyes, soft moans dropping from his lips. “That the American book?”

“The very American book, yes,” Harry nods.

“Proper angsty of you, you bloody hipster.”

Harry giggles. “Call it what you want.”

Louis lifts himself so that he’s sitting upright, but he pulls his blanket up to his shoulders so that only his head pokes through the top. “I read that book once.”

“Did you?” Harry asks. He tucks one finger between the pages to hold his place, then closes the cover.

“Yep. ‘No matter what you do it's bound to be a waste of time in the end,’” Louis quotes, “‘so you might as well go mad.’”

“What did you think?”

Louis shrugs. “Felt kinda like watching a guy suck his own dick.”

Harry chokes on a burst of surprised laughter. “A guy—what?”

“It’s just a string of weird, disjointed events that make no sense. And put together, they are an entire _book_ that makes no sense. And Sal,” Louis continues, removing a hand from under the blanket to point a finger at Harry, “needs to get himself out of Dean’s melodramatic arse.”

“Books don’t have to have a point to be good,” Harry argues. “Literature doesn’t _have_ to make sense. Sometimes it just wants to represent life, and life doesn’t make sense.”

“Yes, but they should have a decent plot, at the very least. So should life, if you want to use that argument.”

“I don’t know,” Harry shrugs. “Maybe not.”

“Well, why do you like it so much?” Louis asks, gesturing toward the worn book on Harry’s lap. “That shit is old.”

“I just think the writing is beautiful. The language is so rich.”

“What do you mean?”

“Listen to this.” Harry pauses, opening the book in his lap and dragging his finger down the page to find the correct line. “‘It was a fine night, a warm night, a wine-drinking night, a moony night, and a night to hug your girl and talk and spit and be heavengoing.’ Isn’t that gorgeous?”

Louis hesitates for a moment, two small creases forming between his eyebrows, then he shrugs his right shoulder. “Eh. It’s alright.”

Harry chuckles, closing the book again with a shake of his head. “You just like to be too cool for things.”

“I will say,” Louis allows. “It seems somehow appropriate to be reading an American travel novel, considering our current circumstances.”

“Thank you, how generous.”

“Of course. Little hipster,” Louis exhales a laugh.

“What if I asked you to re-read it?”

“Re-read it when?”

“I don’t know,” Harry shrugs. “Now. Would you?”

“Right here, on this jet?” Louis asks, raising his eyebrows.

“Well, no. But if I give this to you,” Harry says, holding the book in the space between them, balanced in the palm of his hand, “would you read it again?”

“Humph,” Louis grunts. “I guess so.”

Harry grins, placing the book in Louis' lap. “Perfect. Pay attention to my underlines.” Harry is a habitual sentence-underliner. Every sentence that makes him gasp, makes his heart twist in his chest, he underlines. The best ones he dog-ears to make them easier to find. “They’re the best sentences in the whole book. Don’t read for plot,” he instructs. “Read for words. Read for _moments_.”

Louis rolls his eyes, but there’s a gentle smile in it. “Alright, alright. Don’t pop off right here.” He takes both hands out from under his blanket to flip through the pages of Harry’s book. “I’ll let you know what I think.”

“Thanks, Lou,” Harry beams.

“Go to sleep, Hazza,” Louis says affectionately. 

So he does, and he dreams of swimming, of a river that sweeps him away.

* * * * *

“Okay, arms up.”

Louis lifts his arms up, his plain white shirt riding up to reveal a thin strip of skin. 

“Nope,” Harry sighs with a shake of his head. “Come here.”

Louis walks toward Harry, who is seated on the dressing room sofa. The sofa has no arm rests, so Louis has already discovered that it’s the perfect spot to stretch out on his stomach, arms flung over the sides. First show of the tour, and Harry has already discovered that Louis is a lazy shit who takes every opportunity he gets to do this.

Harry lifts Louis' shirt. “Hold this,” he instructs Louis. As Louis holds the shirt up near his nipples, Harry unbuttons Louis' jeans, tugging at the zipper and folding the right side down. He reaches for his sewing kit, from which he draws two safety pins. “I’m going to try to pin the pants to your jeans. That way they’re guaranteed to show.”

“Harry, this is fucking stupid. There’s no fucking way this is going to work.”

Harry drops his hands, lifting his head to look at Louis. “Do you have a better idea?”

“No,” Louis admits.

“Neither do I, so stand still, please.”

The rainbow pants were Liam’s idea, really. At the hotel the night before, after they'd landed and checked into their rooms, Harry, Louis, and Liam had ordered room service and gotten tipsy on hotel wine in styrofoam coffee cups, and Louis had mentioned wanting to find a way to undermine his straight narrative again at the first show of his US tour. It need not be over the top, he had explained; his fans are observant. Liam had mentioned the first thing that rolled off his tongue: rainbow pants, strategically worn to pop out of the top of his jeans. 

And, well, Harry had been too distracted thinking about Louis and pants after that to think of any better ideas, so that was how he ended up here and now, his face mere centimetres from Louis' dick, which is tucked into a pretty pair of rainbow pants. Harry is pleading with himself to ignore the throbbing heat that blooms in his own.

“Okay,” Harry says. “Let’s try again.”

Louis fastens his jeans again, then raises his arms above his head. Once again, his shirt rises along with the motion, this time revealing slivers of rainbow coloured fabric.

“Yes!” Harry cries. “Perfect.” 

Louis offers a tight fist, which Harry bumps with his own. “Thanks for your help, mate,” Louis says, gripping Harry’s shoulder. “Really.”

Harry pushes off the couch to envelop Louis in a tight hug. Harry can feel Louis melting into it, looping his arms around Harry’s waist and joining his hands behind Harry’s back. Never one to let go of hugs first, Harry rubs the top of Louis' back, between his shoulderblades, until Louis backs away to whisper “Thank you” again.

“Voice nice and warm?” Harry asks, checking in.

Louis runs through a quick scale, then gives Harry a thumbs up. “The warmest.”

“New York City isn’t even ready for you,” Harry grins.

“‘Nowhere to go but everywhere,’” Louis quotes proudly.

“Did you just quote my favourite book to me?”

“Louis, on in five!” comes a shout from the hall. “Please be on time tonight. _Please_.” Harry has never met anyone more affectionate toward Louis than his bodyguard, Alberto, nor has he ever met anyone more used to Louis' antics than Alberto.

“Gotta go,” Louis smiles, tossing a thumb over his shoulder to point toward the door.

He looks beautiful, Louis does. He stands between Harry and the lights over the mirror, his head perfectly framed by the light from one of the massive bulbs. He glows. But then again, Louis has never needed a light source to do that. The sunshine that spills like liquid from his smile is bright enough to grow daisies in. Harry wants to lick every last drop up with his tongue.

“Okay,” Harry murmurs.

“Okay.”

“Good luck.”

Louis grins. “Come and watch me.”

“I will,” Harry assures him.

When Louis has disappeared through the doorway and pulled the door closed behind him, Harry stumbles his way to the bathroom across the room. He bursts, panting, through the door, and slams it behind him, turning the lock until he hears the soft click of the mechanism snapping into place.

He fumbles with the zipper of his jeans, and shoves them, along with his pants, to his knees. He wraps a hand around himself, his cock thickening between his quick-moving fingers. His breath comes in shuddered, needy gasps through his plush wet lips as he leans his head back against the door, pumping his hand faster.

Louis' figure materializes in his thoughts, the soft ripple of his muscles under his thin white shirt, the smell of heat between his thighs as Harry pushed a saftey pin through fabric with shaking fingers.

“Fuck,” Harry pants. “L-Louis.”

Tension curls in the pit of his stomach, beads of pre-come leaking onto his fingers as he strokes his cock, groaning and desperate for release. He bites down hard on his bottom lip and moans, and through the thin arena walls, he hears the screaming from the audience that signals Louis' entrance.

So close, so _fucking_ close, and he slows his strokes slightly, his body shuddering violently as he squeezes his eyes tight and leans forward, spilling into his palm. Louis' opening notes echo from the arena, and pressed up against the bathroom door, biting on the collar of his t-shirt, Harry comes apart in his own hands.

* * * * *

When Harry steps out into the arena with Liam and sets up two folding chairs by the catwalk, Louis is in the centre of the stage, both hands on his microphone, his brow furrowed with emotion, strain, passion. He belts out the notes of one of his popular ballads, the notes floating from his delicious lips into the screaming crowd.

Harry sits, mesmerized, unconsciously moving his lips in time with Louis'. In time with the words.

When the beat of the next song drums in Harry’s chest, Louis sprints down the catwalk and dances wildly, limbs flung out every which way as he sings, his voice clear and crystal sharp. At the end, he stumbles into a bow, then lifts his arms above his head, turning in a slow circle to gaze over every section in the arena. His shirt rides up, reveals a strip of rainbow fabric.

The arena erupts in a thunderous, deafening roar. Harry grips Liam’s arm beside him, his eyes bulging. Liam’s grin divides his face in two. Louis drops his arms, runs back down the catwalk, stops in the corner where Harry is seated. Makes eye contact. Fixes Harry with a smile that Harry _feels_ a thousand times more than he sees. It’s bright. Beacon bright. But it’s not a warning; it feels like a promise. A promise that some way, somehow, everything— _Louis_ —is going to be okay.

* * * * *

“It's got, like...” Louis leans into his laptop screen, squinting slightly. “I think gold trim? And there's a silk panel—”

“Saint Laurent,” Harry declares, dropping a folded pair of jeans into a pile of several identical pairs.

“Damn,” Louis whistles. “You're good. Winter or spring?”

“Spring, obviously,” Harry replies with a roll of his eyes.

Louis chuckles, and the sound of quick tapping comes from the his laptop. “You're not human. Okay, next one.”

“Listen, I'm enjoying this challenge and all, I love proving my fashion expertise, don't get me wrong,” Harry explains as he plucks another pair of jeans from the hotel carpet. “But I brought you coffee and it's getting cold.”

Louis sighs. “One more?”

“One more, sure,” Harry chuckles. “But give me a tough one.”

“Tough one, tough one.” Louis is muttering to himself, hunched over, becoming one with his computer. “None of these would be tough for you.”

“Well, pick a more obscure designer, then,” Harry suggests. He folds the last of the jeans, and transfers the stack into an empty laundry basket. 

When Harry had woken up this morning, he had brewed an extra cup of coffee in the coffee machine in his hotel room, and walked to Louis' room in joggers and a loose white v-neck, holding two steaming styrofoam cups. Sure enough, Louis had been fast asleep, mouth hanging wide open as he stretched out on his stomach across the vast white cloud Harry thinks is supposed to resemble a bed. _Lou_ , Harry had murmured, kneeling beside the bed where Louis' head was resting. _It's time to get up, or else you'll be jet-lagged forever._

When Louis had groaned, rolling over onto his back to fling an arm over his eyes, Harry had lifted a styrofoam cup near his nostrils, letting the coffee-scented steam lift Louis from his semi-conscious state.

Harry had pulled back the curtains, allowing milky sunlight to drift leisurely into the room. The floor, of course, was a mess. Louis' legs were covered by his favourite pair of olive green joggers, but they had presumably been packed somewhere in the very bottom of an unknown bag, because clothing lay strewn across the floor and furniture. The chair by the window was piled high with t-shirts and jumpers, and the floor with trousers and jeans. While Louis groaned awake, Harry had busied himself folding Louis' laundry. 

It will probably prove pointless in a few hours when Louis selects his outfit for the day and tears through the piles again, but Harry cherishes the chance to run his fingers along the fabric of Louis' most beloved pieces of clothing, memorizing which jumper has the weak seam and which trousers have a sticky zipper. Every pair of jeans bears an identical imprint of Louis' cell phone in the back right pocket, and Harry traces the outline with the pad of his thumb, remembering. The fabric feels like a placeholder for something else, something too far out of reach for Harry to touch with his bare hands. 

And, well, as soon as Louis was awake, he had propped open his laptop, shoved his duvet to the bottom of the bed, and set right into his games. _I'm going to test you_ , he had proposed. _I'll describe a piece of clothing, and based on my description, you tell me the designer._

Harry had simply giggled. Sure enough, up until now, he hadn't missed a single one. 

“Ah!” Louis exclaims. “I've got a tough one. It's a pair of shoes.”

“Bring it on,” Harry says.

“Okay. They're high-top sneakers. White soles. Black laces. Green floral print.”

“Are the flowers on a beige background?”

“Um...” Louis leans closer. “Yes.”

“I thought this was supposed to be a hard one!”

“It _is_ a hard one!” Louis whines. 

“Gucci,” Harry concludes. “Obviously.”

“ _Obviously_ ,” Louis mimics in a nasally voice. “Well _obviously_ you're an annoying smarty pants.”

“Drink your coffee,” Harry instructs him.

Louis lifts his cup from the bedside table, tipping it back on his lip to take a careful sip. “Did you put milk in this?” he asks. 

Harry plucks a navy jumper from the chair, dropping it into his lap, and shakes his head. “No, cream.”

“Oh, okay,” Louis replies. “I like milk better.”

“Oh.” Harry frowns. “I guess I forgot. Shit, I'm sorry. Do you want me to make another cup?”

“No, it's okay,” Louis assures him. “Coffee's coffee.” He takes another tiny sip, then smiles at Harry from across the lip of the cup. “Seriously. Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you just ran over my cat,” Louis chuckles. 

“I'm not—” Harry stutters. He can feel heat blooming in his cheeks. “Alright.”

“Hey, decent hotel coffee,” Louis observes. He pushes his laptop to the side, crossing his legs and resting the coffee cup on his right thigh. “I'm impressed.”

“Only the best for Louis Tomlinson,” Harry winks. He folds the last of the shirts, and places the stack beside the jeans in the laundry basket.

Louis pushes his fringe away from his forehead with the backs of his fingers, then smiles at Harry. “What did you think of the show last night?”

“Oh, I loved it,” Harry blurts. “I loved it so much. The part where you danced at the end of the catwalk, your pants—”

“Did you hear them scream?” Louis cries.

“I did, I did, they were so loud.” 

Louis shakes his head in disbelief, his eyes widening slightly. “Absolutely fucking insane. I thought I'd be scared to do it, but in the moment, I wasn't scared at all.”

“Scared of what?”

Louis shrugs, taking a slow sip of coffee as if to give himself time to think. “People's reactions, I guess. Yeah. This is all...it's all new to me.”

Harry nods. He inches closer to the bed, crossing his legs and resting his elbows on his thighs. Louis finishes his coffee in one last gulp, and places his cup on the bedside table. He leans back onto the pillows and turns on his side to face Harry, resting his head in the palm of his hand. A pause hangs momentarily, like a puff of warm breath on a winter morning, then it dissipates. 

“Louis?” Harry asks.

“Yeah?”

“What's your biggest fear?”

“My biggest fear?” Louis echoes. “About eventually coming out, or just in general?”

“Just...in general,” Harry clarifies. 

Louis blinks, pulling his knees slightly toward his chest. He's quiet for a few moments, then he whispers, “I think...not living. Not making the most of my life.”

Harry studies the lines of his palm, searching for clues in their dips and curves. He can't find words in them, so he simply lifts his head and murmurs, “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Louis says, and the word nearly disappears into thin air before it reaches Harry's ears. Harry waits for him to say more, and time rises and falls like the ocean tide within the empty space between them, between words. Just when Harry is preparing to change the subject with the first thing he can think of, Louis opens his mouth to speak again. “I'm terrified of looking back on my life and seeing only missed opportunities.”

Harry nods slowly, considering for a few moments. “Are you—are you afraid of not fulfilling some greater purpose?” Harry asks, wondering how Louis could ever make anything of this life except the most it has to offer.

“I guess so, yeah.” Louis studies the wrinkles in the bed sheets, runs his fingers along two long creases, identical ones forming between his eyebrows. “Here's how I see it. Life is just...a collection of choices.” He smooths his hand in circles over the sheets. “These choices...they kind of, they decide your direction. In life, I mean. And I want to feel like whatever happens to me, it's something that I chose. But I'm also...” He swallows hard, and lines ripple in the skin of his forehead. “I'm also scared that all the choices I'm making, and have yet to make, might be leading me in the _wrong_ direction. I'm scared it will be all for nothing. Just wasted time. And we get so little time, Harry.”

“I don't think anything in this world is for nothing,” Harry says.

“I know you don't, and I love that,” Louis replies. He smiles at Harry, but the corners of his eyes droop. “I just...I want my life to be this grand narrative. I picture a wall, you know?” He spreads his hands in front of him, mimicking a sprawling surface. “A huge, wide open wall that's all mine to paint. I want to be able to choose everything—the topic, the colours, the composition. But I'm afraid of not filling up all my space. I'm afraid of having this tiny little painting when I could have a massive, gorgeous mural.”

Harry nods, his eyes widening slightly. “That makes a lot of sense,” he says, because it does. It makes perfect sense.

Louis ducks his head, rolling the edge of his pillowcase between his fingers. Then he looks up, meeting Harry's gaze. “What about you?” he asks. “What's your biggest fear?”

Harry draws a ragged breath, and it feels like pulling cotton into his lungs. He uncrosses his legs, tucking his knees under his chin, wrapping his arms around his shins. “Hurting people.”

“Hurting who?”

“Anyone.”

“Harry,” Louis eases, his voice gentle. “You can't go your whole life without ever hurting anyone.”

“I know.” Harry's eyes are wide, and his voice trembles. “That's why I'm scared.”

“Do you want to...I don’t know, talk about it?” Louis offers gently.

Harry shifts, sliding his palms up and down his shins, then clears his throat. “I, um...Ever since my mum died, I’ve thought about, like, the legacy I’m going to leave, you know? Like, at her funeral, all these people came and they had the most amazing things to say about her. She was really incredible.” Harry pauses, nodding briefly as if to encourage himself to go on. “But, like, I guess it hit me, you know...I could hurt someone today and then be gone tomorrow, and never have a chance to make it up to them. And yeah, I know, that’s really...morbid…”

“But understandable,” Louis adds.

“It is?” Harry exhales the words like a sigh of relief.

“Yeah, of course it’s understandable. When you’re seventeen and you lose someone that close to you, it’ll make life feel a lot more fragile.”

“Fragile, yeah.” Harry rests his chin on his knees. “So, anyway, like...I guess that’s my fear. Hurting people. And the thing about it is, like, it’s _inevitable_.” Louis is watching him so intently, nodding in perfect rhythm to encourage the outpour of his words, that it makes his chest burn. “I had this boyfriend. Aiden. And he was...like, he wanted me to stay in uni to study law, said I’d never be successful in fashion. He hated my friends and he hated when I did anything without him. But he was my first serious boyfriend, and it just—it took me a long time to realise that wasn’t what a relationship is supposed to be. Like, yeah, I was his boyfriend but I wasn’t his _possession_.”

“How long were you with him?”

“Like a year and then some. And so, yeah, Gemma hated him. Like, when I’d bring him home, she’d practically lock herself in her room…”

Louis exhales a laugh, his eyes wrinkling at the edges. “Sounds like her.”

Harry giggles, too. “Yeah. And she was the one who helped me, like, realise.”

“Realise what?” Louis asks.

“That he had me sort of trapped. That I’d been with him for over a year and I hadn’t grown one bit. I was miserable in uni, miserable studying law, and I realised he was the only reason I was still doing both of those things.”

Louis shifts onto his back, leaning against the headboard with his legs straight out in front of him. “So what happened?”

“Well, I kind of just changed my entire life. In one day, really. In the morning, I packed up my flat and walked to the administrative offices and dropped out of uni. Then I piled all my shit in my car and drove to Aiden’s. And like, I don’t know, I barely even remember what I told him, but I just said I couldn’t do it anymore. I remember…” Harry’s voice breaks then, and he coughs into his fist before continuing. “I just remember a lot of crying. He was crying so hard he—he couldn’t breathe, and I just—I like, I just had to close the door on him and walk away.”

Louis' eyes are so deep and soft and dark that Harry can’t draw his gaze away. “That was so brave,” Louis breathes.

“It was really fucking hard. It fucked me up for so long. The way he just cried and cried, and…” Harry shakes his head, closing his eyes, wishing he could shake the memory away. “He called me all the time. I never answered, but the voicemails… _fuck_. He would just cry, and he sounded so desperate, so b-broken.” He takes a deep breath, tries to centre himself, but his voice comes out choked. “I hurt him so much. I felt like a m-monster.”

“Oh, Harry,” Louis murmurs. “Come here.” He slides over on the bed, patting the empty space beside him. Harry stands up and closes the distance between them in seconds. He lifts himself up onto the bed, and tucks himself into Louis' side. Louis places one arm behind Harry’s shoulders, holding him tight to his chest, and his other hand trails through Harry’s curls.

“I’m sorry about getting all emotional,” Harry whispers. 

“Don’t be.” Louis shifts down on the bed so that they’re lying side by side, Harry’s head is pillowed on Louis' shoulder, and Louis traces small circles on the thin fabric that covers Harry’s bicep. Their bodies are pressed warmly together from their torsos to their feet, and Harry instinctively rests a palm on Louis' stomach, following the rise and fall of his breath.

As Harry nestles into Louis' body, he wonders how much longer this can last. This, whatever this thing is between them, it’s so delicate, so fragile. There has to be a tipping point—there always is. But with Louis' heartbeat pulsing below Harry’s fingers and his warm breath tangling in his hair, Harry is nothing but afraid. Afraid of breaking the silky, fracturable tenderness between them, and afraid of ruining things—afraid of causing pain. He couldn’t even make Louis' coffee perfectly—he likes milk, not cream. How could he love him perfectly? How could he be pure, selfless, attentive, _in love_ with his best friend and not have it all go to shit with his clumsy words and clumsy fingers?

Louis doesn’t love him, and he doesn’t know how Harry feels, either, but right now, Harry just closes his eyes and listens to the rhythmic beating of Louis' heart, wishes he could draw a message from the measured pulses. 

He breathes in and loves Louis, and he breathes out and loves him more.

* * * * *

When Louis texts him later that week with only an address, Harry is scrolling through a list of Google search results for nearby lunch cafes on his phone. He had brought Louis his morning coffee as had become their routine, and they had eaten handfuls of cereal from the box that Louis stashes under his bed so that they didn’t have to leave the hotel room and brave the cold. _I don’t feel like hunting for my socks_ , Louis had whined when Harry had suggested waffles and coffee. And rightly so; all of his bags lay open on the floor, shirts and socks and trousers spilling out across the plush carpet of the hotel room. It would have been easy to select the first two socks on the top of the clothing pile, but Louis has this thing about matching socks, and Harry figures he would do best to encourage any semblance of order in Louis' life—matching socks or otherwise—so handfuls of coco pops it was.

And it had—as so many things with Louis do—devolved into a competition to see who could catch the most coco pops in their mouth. It had begun with giggles and ended with a bed full of cereal and a proud, gloating Louis. And, well, if Harry had let Louis win, that was his own business. But now, an hour and a half later, Louis is off “exploring,” or at least that’s what he said, and Harry’s stomach is protesting, twisting with hunger pains. His mind is still stuck on the gourmet waffle shop down the street.

Harry’s phone buzzes in his hands, and a text message notification blinks at the top of his screen.

_2891 Pew St. Be there !!!!_

Pew Street. Hadn’t they driven down that street on the way from the airport to the hotel yesterday? Hadn’t Louis pointed out a little hole-in-the-wall barbecue place with half of the letters of their sign blown out? 

His stomach growls loudly in confirmation, and he glances at the time. 11:30. A little early for barbecue, but at this point Harry would probably eat baked squirrel if it smelled pleasant enough, so he taps out a response.

**Now?**

_no, next week when we’re in chicago. YES NOW !!!_

Harry chuckles and pushes himself off of Louis' bed, arranging the duvet and smoothing out the wrinkles behind him. He shoves his phone into his back pocket and before he steps out into the hall, he retrieves Louis' black cardigan from the back of the chair by the door. Louis had left wearing only a loose-fitting pale yellow v-neck and trousers, and Harry is sure he must be freezing in the late February wind.

When he arrives at the address Louis had texted him, Harry glances around, confused. In front of him sits a squat little building nestled between two bars. The building is painted a furious red colour, and a neon sign above the doorway reads “Dagger Tattoo.” A black wooden door marks the entrance, and a hand-painted gold design loops and twists around the edges. In the centre of the door, in thick, white characters, are the numbers “2891.”

Just as Harry begins to draw his phone from his pocket to call Louis, a tiny figure comes bursting through the door and barreling into Harry’s chest.

“Whoa,” Harry grunts, startled by the force of the impact.

The figure pulls back, and Louis stares back at Harry, a sprawling grin lengthening across his face. “You’re here!”

“I’m...yeah, where am I, exactly?”

“Dagger Tattoo,” Louis explains, drawing an arm behind him. “Wanted it to be a surprise but...just couldn’t do it without you.”

Harry allows himself to be pulled when Louis reaches for his wrist and leads him through the front door of the tattoo studio.

“What are you doing?” Harry asks warily. 

“Living in the moment, Haz,” Louis answers with a quick finger to Harry’s ribs. “Making the most of the now, instead of...” He cuts off, waving a hand dismissively in front of him. Harry understands it to mean something like, _instead of worrying too much_

Harry giggles. He and Louis step into the tattoo parlor on black and white tiled floor, and it smells of cigarette smoke and antibacterial spray. “Well, isn’t that inspiring. Where did you learn that from?”

“You want me to say I learned it from your book,” Louis teases.

“Maybe.”

“Well,” Louis smiles cheekily. “I didn’t. Learned it from you.” He punctuates the declaration with a wink.

“I can live with that,” Harry concedes. Inside the studio, the sunlight that streams in through the painted windows illuminates the light dust that hangs in the air, and bounces off the glass from the framed photos that cover every last square centimetre of the walls. The walls aren’t visible beneath all the decoration, but if Harry has to guess, they are probably also painted red; red to match the outside, the leather couches in every corner, the coverings of the tattoo chairs.

“Louis, that him?” calls a voice from the back of the studio.

“Yeah, mate, it’s him!” 

A tall bloke with a close-cropped haircut dyed a pale lavender colour approaches from behind a cluttered metal desk. As the bloke extends a hand, Harry notices a tiny anchor tattoo beneath the corner of his right eye. “Love your tattoo, mate.”

“Oh, thanks, yeah. Did it myself. I’m Michael.”

“Harry. Pleasure.”

“Michael is originally from London,” Louis explains. “He moved here...when was it, Mike?”

Michael shrugs. “Year or so.”

“Right. Runs this place, but he’s got one in London, too. Flies back there all the time. He’s Nick’s—”

“Good friend,” Michael blurts.

“Uh, right. Good friend,” Louis winks exaggeratedly. “ _Very_ good, that.”

Michael shoots Louis a warning look, but Louis just chuckles. “Harry met Nick at his birthday party not too long ago,” Louis explains. 

“Were you there?” Harry asks.

“No, unfortunately,” Michael answers, shaking his head. “Had to be here this month.” He extends his arms to indicate the studio.

“You do lovely work,” Harry hums. He’s turned around to face the wall, fingering the corner of one black frame, which bears a photo of an elaborate butterfly.

“Thank you,” Michael grins. “One of my favourite pieces, that.”

“You should get a butterfly,” Louis leans in over Harry’s shoulder to whisper in Harry’s ear. His warm breath tickles on Harry’s skin. “Right...here.” Louis reaches around from behind Harry to place a palm over his chest, and the heat of the contact pulses downward, through Harry’s stomach and between his legs.

Harry inhales a breath, clasping his hands together in front of his crotch and taking two steps back from Louis.

“Well,” Michael begins, pointing a thumb behind him. “What do you say we get started? I’ll go get set up.”

“Great,” Louis replies.

When Michael disappears again behind his desk, Harry turns to Louis and asks, “What are you getting?”

“A triangle. Right here.” He points to his right ankle, just below the bottom of his cuffed trousers.

“A triangle?”

Louis nods. “Yep.”

“Like… _fuck_ , Louis. A _triangle_? Are you sure about this?”

“I am. I am so sure.”

Harry’s eyes are wide, and he instinctively reaches for Louis' arm. “When did you decide?”

“The morning we talked in my hotel room. I’m not sure of much right now, but there are two things I do know. One, I’m proud of who I am, and two, I want people to know that. And if I can’t say it, I’ll show it on my body until I can.”

Harry lightly squeezes Louis' bicep, studying his gaze. “That’s so amazing. I’m so proud. You said something earlier about living in the moment…” he prompts.

“Yeah,” Louis nods, his smile gentle and confident. “I guess what I mean by that is, like, I’ve had this need to make this whole process perfect. Wondering when I’ll come out, wondering how I’ll do it, wondering what the reaction will be. But I guess…” Louis trails off, examining his hands in front of him as he rubs his palms together, his brow furrowing. “I guess it’s kind of like what you said about that book you gave me. ‘Don’t read for plot, read for moments.’”

Harry shifts his weight onto his right leg, tilting his head to the side to avoid looking down at Louis. “What do you mean?”

“Well, I see coming out as an event in the plot of my life, and I want it to be perfect. But if I get lost in the waiting, I miss out on my chance to do what I can right now. It’s not an ideal situation, but it’s still mine to make of it what I will.” Louis pulls in a deep breath, pushes his fringe off his forehead, glances around the room. He releases the breath, centres himself. “So this is my moment, and I’m making the most of it.”

Harry shakes his head, his eyes widening slightly with the movement. “You’re incredible.”

Louis breathes a shy laugh, dropping his gaze to his feet, which he shuffles across the floor. “Stop saying that to me.”

“Why? It’s true.”

“I basically just repeated what you’ve already told me,” Louis protests.

“Louis. Look at me.” Harry reaches for Louis' hands, cupping both of them between his own. Louis meets his gaze and his eyes are stormy, oceans deep. “You’re so brave for doing this. It’s okay to agree with that.”

“I guess—” Louis begins with a shrug.

“No, no guessing,” Harry interrupts. “Say ‘I’m brave for doing this.’”

Louis squints, pressing his lips together to suppress a shy laugh. “You’re embarrassing me.”

“Lou, say it.”

“Can I just—”

“ _Say_ it.”

“I’m b-brave for doing this.”

Harry draws Louis into his chest, rubbing his back in two small circles, burying his nose into his hair. It’s getting long, Harry notices. It’s beginning to curl around his ears. “Yes, you are,” Harry whispers.

When Michael returns, he clears his throat noisily and chuckles to himself when Harry and Louis startle apart. Heat prickles beneath the skin of Harry’s cheeks as he follows Louis to the tattoo chair and helps him roll up the right leg of his trousers.

When the tip of the needle is dipped in ink and pressed to the thin skin of Louis' ankle, Louis barely flinches. Harry knows it’s because he’s had plenty of experience with the needle—his right arm especially is littered with tattoos—but he still finds himself hating the idea of Louis hurting. Of getting used to pain. It doesn’t matter what kind. So Harry tells Louis he can squeeze his hand anyway, and Louis does.

And when the tattoo is finished and bandaged and Louis' fingers tremble with anticipation and shock as sharp as electricity, Harry places a firm hand on his shoulder and says, “You know, they say you can tell a man by his ankles.” 

Louis giggles and asks, “Do they say that?”

Harry shrugs. “I don't know. Maybe.”

“I think that was just you.”

Harry laughs and drapes an arm around Louis' neck, drawing him into himself. Louis follows, easy as he always is with Harry, and he rests his hand on Harry’s chest for a split second.

“I’m starving,” Harry announces. “Can we get lunch?”

“The barbecue place we passed on the way in is just down the street. Want to go there?”

Harry’s heart aches in his chest, stretched tight like a balloon blown to twice its size. “I do.”

So they walk, Louis tucked under Harry’s arm, and the world that shifts beneath their feet feels much too small for the both of them. It’s early afternoon, and it’s itching of possibility. It’s melancholic signals of the changing seasons like the last ice cream cone of summer and the first red leaf of autumn, and it’s the way he falls into step with the boy with the ocean eyes and the lavender jumper and the smile that breaks like sunlight over a windowsill.

* * * * *

**April**

“Good. That was so good. The part at the end of the line, where you dropped your voice—good. Do that again.”

Louis grins, running his hand gently across his bare chest. He stands behind a microphone set up in the corner of the hotel room, wearing a pair of headphones nearly the size of his head. He winds the cord absently between his fingers with one hand, and Harry sits cross-legged beside a table full of food, shoveling in mouthfuls of pineapple and strawberries. Julian Bunetta, the producer of Louis' upcoming album, hunches over his laptop on the bed, fiddling with his recording equipment.

“Okay. Ready?” Julian asks, raising one finger.

“Ready,” Louis confirms. 

Louis begins to tap his foot to a beat that hums through his headphones, then tips his head back to sing. 

Listening to Louis record has quickly become one of Harry’s favourite things about touring with him. Recording began in early March, when Julian had flown in to meet them in Chicago. Most nights of the week, Louis and Julian shared a dinner of catered room service on sprawling hotel suite tables with white lacy tablecloths and sometime in the weeks that had passed between then and now, probably somewhere in Ohio if Harry remembers correctly, Harry had started joining them. 

Harry quickly learned that Louis takes many different forms. Around people, he’s a brilliant golden yellow, floating from person to person and leaving a trail of stardust behind. Alone with Harry, he’s a deep navy colour, the velvety shade of the winter night sky that catches the glare of the white snow below. But when he sings, he’s a rich crimson, the colour of red wine on plush, bitten lips. The music rolls through him like waves of passion, and pours out of his mouth in gorgeous phrases of words and lush notes.

It’s a soft April evening in Minneapolis, and the bitter winter is most decidedly behind them. It’s all almost too much for Harry—the sweet spring air that curls in his hair, the tangy cold of the berries he drops one by one into his open mouth, the bright and breezy tone of Louis' voice, the pungent smell of Louis' cigarette, the sight of him, shirt dropped onto the floor beside his feet, hair pushed back from his face by a black headband. Harry feels raw and sensitive, drunk on Louis' voice and reeling from sensory overload.

“How was that?” Louis asks.

“Fucking amazing,” Harry murmurs around a mouthful of fruit. 

Louis giggles, drawing two fingers across his own collarbone. “I was _actually_ asking Julian, but I’m glad you’re listening while you’re eating all of our food.”

“Hey, you don’t like strawberries,” Harry pouts. “Someone has to eat them.”

“I like strawberries,” Julian protests. “Do I get any bloody strawberries?”

Harry stares at Julian, head tilted to the side as if disoriented by the reminder of a third person in the room. “Oh, okay.” 

Julian chuckles, stretching across the bed to grab a bunch of grapes from the food table. He tilts his head back and holds the grapes over his mouth, plucking a single grape from the bunch with his front teeth. Harry can hear the crunch as Julian chews. 

“So, Louis,” Julian says when he’s swallowed the grape. “What would you say if I told you the new single is ready?”

Louis gasps behind the microphone, cupping both hands over his wide-open mouth. “It is?” he gapes, the sound muffled as it leaks out from between his fingers.

“It is,” Julian confirms. 

“Well, when can we release it?”

“Come here, come sit.” Julian pats the duvet beside him and Louis comes out from behind his microphone to sit cross-legged on the bed. “Here’s the run-down of what we have so far. We drop the single the first week of June. That gives us about six weeks for promo. After things cool down, we bring out our second surprise three weeks later, at the VMAs—the music video.”

“Six weeks?” Louis wrinkles his nose to look warily at Julian. “I thought we wanted it to be a surprise. This week would be a surprise.”

“It would,” Julian agrees. “But there’s a strategy here. In June it will _look_ like a surprise, sure, but even surprises need promo.”

“What kind of promo are we talking?”

“Harmless stuff,” Julian assures him. “Some clubbing, which I’m sure you can handle. Radio shows here and there. Think you can bear that?”

“No bearding?”

“No bearding, no.”

“You’re sure?”

“Well, no, I can’t promise anything,” Julian admits. “That decision is not ultimately in my hands. But it hasn’t been something we have discussed during the planning stages.”

“Okay.” Louis searches out eye contact with Harry, and the skin under his eyes is brushed a muted purple, betraying his exhaustion. Harry wills his eyes to speak the reassurance his mouth cannot.

“Well, what do you say we quit for the night?” Julian offers.

Louis nods stiffly, and he helps to pack the equipment into little black bags that Julian piles on his back as he steps out of the hotel room.

[Skin - Josh Record](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-vWSGyixhTA)

“You okay?” Harry murmurs. Louis' back is turned toward him, and his shirt stretches tight across his shoulder blades as he slumps forward. 

“I’m okay.”

“Louis, he said no bearding.”

“He didn’t promise anything,” Louis corrects him.

“I know,” Harry sighs. “Come here.” He pushes himself across the floor until he’s leaning up against the bed. Louis crawls down from the bed, and settles beside Harry, his legs tucked beneath him as he leans into Harry’s body. His fingers tap a slow rhythm on Harry’s thigh, and he sniffles quietly. Harry nuzzles his face into Louis' hair, breathing in the smoky-sweet scent. “What are you thinking?” he whispers.

Louis inhales slowly as if preparing to respond, then pauses. His fingers are still on Harry’s leg. Then, he leans back to look at up Harry. “I’m thinking I want to go get a drink.”

“Hey, no, don’t go into self-destruct mode on me,” Harry mumbles, tightening his arm around Louis' shoulders.

“It’s not that,” Louis protests. “I just...I need to get out of here for a while. I’ve had enough of hotel rooms. I need something...alive.”

“Okay,” Harry concedes. “Where do you want to go?”

“Somewhere we can walk to. It’s so beautiful out tonight.”

So they find a place that takes twenty minutes to walk to, and they share two cigarettes in silence on the way. When Louis reaches for a third, he realises he’s run out, so he tucks the empty carton back into his pocket and decides to talk instead. In a breathy, winding voice, he tells Harry that his sister Lottie has just started dating a boy from school, and that the baby twins have learned two-syllable words. His hood is pulled up over his head to hide his identity, but when he turns to look at Harry, the light from the street signs flickers in his eyes like the moon across water, and like stepping into old footsteps left over in the sand, Harry is reminded once again of the crippling, ferocious love that blooms like a bruise in his chest.

At the bar, Louis leans heavy into Harry and whispers “Order me one of your pink drinks.” Harry does, and Louis tips the glass back on his lip and swallows it down in one go. His fingers are sharp over Harry’s hipbones as he guides him onto the dance floor.

“Is this living in the moment?” Louis murmurs into Harry’s ear, and something in the question is sticky, like a dare.

“Do you feel like it is?” Harry asks in response. He and Louis dance facing one another, bodies pressed nearly flush together so that they can whisper in one another’s ears despite the thrum of the music and cheers that vibrate around them.

“Why do you always respond to my questions with more questions?” Louis mumbles.

“Why do you hate questions?”

“I don’t,” Louis protests. “But...I do. Feel like living in the moment, I mean.”

“How does it feel?”

“Like...running from one falling star to another till I drop.”

Harry hears the quote in it, and smiles into Louis' hair. “Knew you’d like the book. Fucking _knew_ it.”

“Stop gloating,” Louis hisses. “You drive me crazy, Harry Styles.”

If Harry closes his eyes, he can feel the boundaries begin to blur, can feel himself losing sense of the line where he ends and Louis' copper skin and whirlpool eyes begin. He imagines that when he crawls into bed that night, his skin will still be sweet with the smell of smoke and sugary alcohol and it will all smell like Harry’s sunshine boy with the voice of an angel, and when he closes his green eyes in sleep, he’ll see blue.

 _You drive me crazier, Louis Tomlinson,_ he thinks to himself. _Crazier every second._

* * * * *

**May**

April comes and goes, and May brings the first show on the west coast and a visit from Sophia. 

Harry arrives at the venue in Portland before Louis and the band, so he decides on a quick episode or two of Friends in the dressing room. He shoulders his leather bag and his footsteps echo between the walls as he walks down the concrete hall. When he pushes the door open and steps into the dressing room, he freezes with a gasp. “Oh! Shit—I, uh—”

Sophia is seated in Liam’s lap, facing him with her long legs straddling him on either side. She pulls back to grin at Harry, and her lips are swollen slightly, and tinted a shade of pink that doesn’t look to Harry like lipstick.

“Hey, babe,” she giggles, her palm pressed to Liam’s chest. Liam’s face is bright red, and he avoids eye contact with Harry. “Surprise!”

“Sorry,” Harry chuckles. “You two love the surprises, don’t you?”

“Been quiet at work,” Sophia explains. “Figured now's as good a time as any to drop in for a few shows. Even Liam here didn't know I was coming.”

“Liam, you can look at me, mate. There's a lot worse things than kissing that I could have seen. All things considered,” Harry shrugs, “you two snogging like teenagers is pretty innocent. Plus,” he adds with a wink, “you know how I love love.”

Liam groans, pressing the heel of his palm to his forehead, but Sophia swats his hand away. “Oh, stop it. I don't understand the relationship between you two.”

“Neither do I,” Liam whines, and Harry flips him off with the utmost affection.

“Can you help me put things on the racks?” Harry asks.

“Sure,” Liam replies, pressing his lips to Sophia's cheek before helping her off his lap. 

When they've hung up all of the shirts and nearly all of the jumpers, the door to the dressing room opens, and Louis stands, his posture drooping and tired, in the doorway. Harry can't remember a time when Louis has ever done anything less than _burst_ into the room at full speed, so worry prickles at the back of his throat immediately. 

“Hey, Lou, is everything okay?” Harry asks.

“Can I talk to you?”

“Of course, do you want to—”

“Actually,” Sophia interrupts, “Uh, Liam and I were just saying before you got here that we wanted to pick up some Chinese. We're starving.” She rubs her stomach for emphasis, and Liam follows her lead to join in.

“Yeah, mate, we'll go get some. Want us to bring you back any?” Liam offers.

“I'm okay,” Louis declines politely.

When Liam and Sophia have scurried hand in hand out the door of the dressing room mumbling about dumplings and lo mein, Harry and Louis sink into the leather sofa and turn to face one another. Louis takes a deep breath, and his brow is furrowed, wrinkled with uncertainty about where to begin.

“What’s up?” Harry prompts gently, pulling one knee up to his chest.

“Well…” Louis begins. “My single drops in two weeks, you know?”

“Fifteen days, yeah,” Harry nods.

Louis chuckles, shaking his head in two brief movements. “You would know that.” He laces his fingers together in his lap and pops each knuckle, one at a time. When Harry grimaces, Louis glances up apologetically through long, feathery eyelashes. “Sorry. Should stop doing that. So anyway, I just got out of a meeting with Simon and Griffiths. He’s the publicity guy.”

Harry nods again. “Right. About promo?”

“For the single, yeah. I have a radio call in like,” he pulls his phone from his pocket, presses the button to light up the screen. “twenty minutes. Then tomorrow I have a video interview with some people from Sugarscape.”

Harry releases a breathy laugh from his nose. “Those are always fun.”

Louis glances down at his hands, rubbing his thumb in circles over the open palm of his left hand. “It, uh…” He clears his throat. “...could be worse.”

A staccato beeping echoes from the hall outside the dressing room as a golf cart squeals by, and Harry shifts on the sofa, studying the top of Louis' bowed head, and the copper hair that parts naturally to the left. “Louis? Is it worse?”

“There is about the be one hell of a sex scandal.” Louis' shoulders drop, and he offers a weak smile. “A real shocker.”

“What do you—like, involving you?”

“Definitely involving me.”

“Do you have to _do_ anything or is this just media garbage?” There’s a huge difference in emotional impact between active and passive stunting, and Harry prays, hopes against all hope, that it’s the latter.

“A bit of both,” Louis explains. “It’ll go on the whole two weeks. I don’t come in until next week though.”

The urge to reach out to Louis itches beneath Harry’s fingernails. “That’s good, right? It’ll end when the single drops.”

“It will, yeah. Nothing after that.” Louis pauses then, and drags his gaze across the dressing room. His chest rises and falls several times with labored breaths, and Harry fights the urge to count the seconds. He needs Louis' light back. This dark, tired boy with bruises under his eyes is not the Louis he should ever have to be. “It’ll be hell on the way there, though,” Louis breathes.

Instead of touching Louis, Harry runs his palms along the leg of his trousers. He swallows, and it burns on the way down, as the truth always does. “I’m pr—”

“Don’t,” Louis cuts him off, his voice sharp. “Don’t say you’re proud of me.”

“But—”

“You haven’t seen the articles yet. You haven’t seen my _shit_ attempt at handling this for the next two weeks. Don’t say you’re proud of me.”

“But those articles aren’t going to be _true_. What I’m looking at right now, what’s happening right here,” Harry says, placing a palm on Louis' knee and pointedly drawing Louis into intense eye contact, “ _that_ is what is true.”

Louis angrily swipes at a tear that slips onto his cheek with the back of his hand. “How could you be proud of _this_?”

 _Because I love you_ , screams the desperate beat of Harry’s heart.

“Because you _refuse_ to give up,” Harry whispers.

Louis sniffles, wiping below his nose with the sleeve of his shirt. He clears his throat, and when he looks up at Harry, his face is painted with blooms of pink and red in his cheeks and his nose. “Can you do something for me?”

“Anything,” Harry blurts.

“Can you…” Louis trails off, dropping his head just in time to conceal a tiny smile. “Can you tell me one of your bloody stupid jokes?”

Harry exhales a surprised laugh. “A joke?”

“I have an interview in like five minutes and I’m sniffling like a fucking baby. I need to laugh at something.”

“You laugh at my jokes?” Harry grins, pressing a palm to his chest. “I’m flattered.”

“No, you idiot. I laugh at _you_ ,” Louis chuckles. The red is draining from his face, but he still sniffles between his sentences. “For thinking they’re funny.”

Harry frowns, crossing his arms over his chest. “I resent that.”

“Four minutes, Harry,” Louis huffs.

“Fine.” Harry clears his throat. “Ready? What is the difference between a snow man and a snow woman?”

Louis giggles, sniffing again. “Oh god. What?”

“Snow balls.”

Louis groans and rolls his eyes so far back Harry worries they might get stuck back there. “Yep. That did the trick.”

“I’m full of them,” Harry winks.

“You’re full of _something_.” Louis pushes off the sofa and smooths the wrinkles that have formed around the waist of his button-down shirt. With one hand, he musses Harry’s hair. “Alright, I’m going to go do that call.”

When Louis leaves the dressing room, Harry digs his phone out of his pocket and opens the app store. After a few swipes and a series of taps, he presses ‘download’ and the Tumblr app begins to load on his home screen.

* * * * *

[Bones - Josh Record](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T3LoAceLAd0)

That night, Harry follows ten tumblr blogs dedicated to Louis. One blog’s header image is a close-up of Louis' triangle tattoo. Harry doesn’t tell Louis yet.

When the first article drops the next day, they’re on the jet on the way to Seattle and Louis is fast asleep with his head on Harry’s shoulder. ‘ _Louis Tomlinson linked to hot model Christen Bergeron, Christen claims she has SEX TAPE!_ ’ the headline reads. Harry swears under his breath and drops his phone in his lap. Acid burns in the back of his throat.

Louis reads it when he wakes up after they touch down in Seattle. He chuckles darkly. “A sex tape? That’s the best they can do?” But when he opens Twitter and scrolls through the responses, his ears turn a deep shade of red, and Harry can see the bones in his jaw clench tight beneath his stubbled skin. And when he laughs, it sounds like he has something to prove.

The next day, another round of articles hits the internet. ‘ _Louis Tomlinson and Christen Bergeron DATING? Christen’s close friend on their relationship_.’ Louis' fandom on Tumblr compiles thousands of letters of support and love addressed to Louis. “We love you, please don’t stop fighting,” one letter is signed. Harry shows them to Louis, and Louis cries in loud sobs that shake his whole body on the floor of the dressing room.

A week before the single drop date, Louis and Christen are papped leaving a restaurant in LA hand in hand. Louis slips through the door of Harry’s hotel room later that evening, and wordlessly crawls into bed beside Harry. They watch a movie, but Harry has no idea what the main character’s name is, nor does he grasp the plot. He only knows Louis has been crying when Louis whispers goodnight and tiptoes across the carpet and into the hall, and a small wet spot has spread across the shoulder of Harry’s shirt.

On Wednesday, two days before the single, Louis is the number one trending topic on Twitter. Harry makes him promise not to look.

On Thursday, Simon is in a tizzy of manic excitement due to the exponential growth in Google searches of Louis' name. All of Louis' west coast shows are sold out. Louis falls asleep on the sofa of the dressing room, exhausted from his late night visit to an LA club with Christen the night before. He looks beautiful in the pap pictures that are published below suggestive headlines, looks dusted with gold glitter in the brilliance of the camera flash, and Harry wishes he could appreciate the photos. Instead, they turn his stomach.

At midnight, the single drops.

A link is tweeted from Louis' Twitter account. He is fast asleep on the floor of Harry’s hotel room.

* * * * *

**June**

[Falling Slowly - Glen Hansard](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yzQ9VrnNQLQ)

“Harry!”

Harry blinks awake. His mouth tastes foul, and the room is startlingly chilly for the first week of June. The faint smell of coffee swirls in his nostrils as he takes a deep, sleepy breath.

“Harry, Harry Harry!”

A hand grips his shoulder, shaking him violently. Or, at least, it feels violent to him. Any movement less than thirty minutes after waking up feels violent. “What? It’s cold in here,” Harry groans. He tugs the duvet up to his nose, turning to press his face into the cool fabric of his pillow case. It smells sterile, like linens in a hospital.

He hears a huffed breath, then footsteps across the plush carpet. A light squeaking sound, then the slam of the window on the windowsill. 

“Okay, the window is closed now.” Oh, it’s Louis. Right. He came in in the middle of the night last night.

“Thank you,” Harry grumbles. He is bounced upward when a weight suddenly falls onto the other side of the bed. “Louis, get off my bed.”

“My single is out,” Louis whispers in Harry’s ear. Harry pushes the duvet away from his face, groaning loudly as he turns to face Louis. Louis draws back, bouncing on his knees. “My single is out!” he repeats, much louder this time.

Dust particles float lazily in the morning light that filters into the room, and they drift around Louis' head. He glows softly, illuminated by the window behind him. He is so sweet, so effortlessly beautiful. His single is out, how nice. How—oh, _fuck_. His _single is out_.

“Wait.” Harry places his hands on either side of him, using his arms to push himself into a sitting position. He rubs the sticky remnants of sleep from the corner of his eyes with the backs of his hands. “Oh my god.”

“Here, I brought _you_ coffee, for once.” A paper cup is shoved in his face, and it smells blessedly sweet and strong.

“Mmm, thank you,” Harry mumbles. “Louis, oh my god. Your single. What are the fans saying? Have you checked twitter?”

“Wanted to wait to do it with you,” Louis admits, his voice bubbling. 

“Oh perfect, I just—hang on, I really have to pee.”

“Okay, I’ll wait,” Louis agrees, pausing halfway through retrieving his phone. 

“No, no way,” Harry protests as he pads over to the en suite. “I’ll leave the door open. Read them to me.”

“Okay, sick, here we go. Should I check Twitter or Tumblr first? Or maybe just Google the song?”

“Check the hashtag,” Harry suggests. When he finishes in the toilet, he plucks his toothbrush from beside the sink and runs the water, dipping the toothbrush into the stream and squeezing toothpaste onto the end.

“‘I’m never sleeping again, look what kind of bullshit Louis pulls on me while I’m trying to sleep in peace,’” Louis reads through his laughter.

“Classic,” Harry giggles through a mouthful of foam.

“What did you say?” Louis calls. 

Harry pokes his head around the door to the en suite. “I said ‘classic,’” he repeats, and as he does, toothpaste dribbles down his chin and onto his bare chest.

Louis throws his head back in laughter. “You’re a mess. Listen, this one says, ‘After listening for three hours on repeat, I officially think this is Louis' best single yet.’ Damn. Three hours.”

Harry walks back into the en suite and spits into the sink. “Ooh, best single yet.” He rinses with water, and dries his mouth with the thick white towel draped over a hook on the wall. “Good shit.”

“Oh my god,” Louis gasps.

Harry returns from the en suite, and Louis sits, his back rigid, on the bed. “What?”

“Oh my _fucking_ god.”

“ _What_ , Louis?”

“It’s number one.”

“Number one on what?”

“iTunes,” Louis gapes, his gaze glued to his phone. “In more than fifty countries.”

Harry rushes over to the bed, lifting himself up to sit beside Louis. He leans over Louis' shoulder to see what he's looking at. “ _Fifty_?”

Louis nods. “Fifty-four, actually.”

“Wow,” Harry marvels. “That’s...wow. How does it feel?”

Louis shakes his head, his mouth wide and his eyes wider. “It feels...it doesn’t feel real.” He lowers his phone to his lap, then turns his head to stare, wide-eyed, at Harry. “It was worth it.”

“What was?” Harry asks.

“The stunt. Christen. The so-called sex tape. _Worth it_.”

Harry swallows, his jaw set. “Don’t say that.”

“Don’t say what?”

“Don’t say it was fucking _worth_ it, Louis,” Harry hisses. “None of it was _worth_ anything. You got, what, three hours of sleep a night? At _most_. I’ve never seen you so…” Harry shakes his head, pressing his lips together.

“Why aren’t you happy for me?” Louis whispers. The corners of his eyes droop, and he recoils when Harry reaches out for him.

“I—Louis. I _am_ happy for you. I’m so happy for you.”

“Then why are you downplaying this?”

“I’m not. I’m not downplaying it, I—Louis, please, look at me.”

Louis turns to make wary eye contact. He embodies hesitation, his gaze uncertain, but he allows Harry to take both of his hands in his own.

“I’m not downplaying it. I’m so _proud_ of you. This has been your dream since you were eleven years old. But Louis, I don’t want you to think that this end justifies the means they put you through. Because if you start thinking that, Simon and fucking Griffiths will keep pulling more of this bullshit.”

“I don’t think it _justifies_ —”

“No, Louis, if you—” Harry interrupts.

“Harry, can I—please let me finish.”

Harry squeezes Louis' hands. “Yes, I’m sorry.”

“I don’t think it justifies the means,” Louis explains. “I just think it makes it more bearable, in hindsight.”

“No,” Harry snaps. “ _Fuck_ no. There’s no hindsight. If it hurts while you’re in the middle of it, it’s fucking _wrong_ , whether it’s worth it in the end or not.” Louis' hands tremble slightly in Harry’s grip as Harry continues. “And can I tell you something? The world hasn't been good to you. I know your father left when you were little, and I know you were teased in school. I know your entire label and management companies are literally paid to cover you up and contain you, and I know your sisters can’t know the truth about you for fear of things leaking. I know you’re tired, I know you feel weak and defeated and the day when you’ll be free seems farther and farther away, and I know it would be so much easier to settle. To let this happen to you, to give up—but Louis. _Louis_.”

“Yes?” Louis whispers, leaning his face closer to Harry’s.

“You were born to be _free_ , Louis Tomlinson. You were born to be this bright, beautiful thing, even in this world that doesn’t understand you. You’ve been hurt, but not destroyed. You’re tired, but not beaten. They’ve turned your volume nearly all the way down, but you know what that means? It just means you sing _louder_. Scream it, if you have to. Just don’t you give up.” Harry laces their fingers together, and clutches Louis' hands tight, as tight as he can possibly bear. “Because this fight isn’t fair. It isn’t right. But you _still. deserve. to win._ ”

All of the oxygen in the room is gone. The space between them vibrates with tension, and every breath they release is magnified, deafening.

Louis leans forward, and like a magnet, pulls Harry into him without so much as a touch. His wild blue eyes flicker frantically up and down, his pupils deep and black and ferocious. When he releases a hot breath, Harry feels it on his own skin.

“What are you—” Harry breathes, and then his mouth falls still, his eyelids dropping shut as Louis' velvet lips meet his.

Harry hums from somewhere back in his throat, and his hand finds its way out of its tangle with Louis' to the back of Louis' neck, where his hairline meets golden skin. Louis parts his lips like a question, and Harry hurries to answer, opening his mouth to taste the sweetness. He lifts himself to draw Louis closer and he is everywhere, all around him, all he can taste and feel, _Louis_ , and then suddenly—there is nothing.

In a flash, Louis pulls away, frantic, and before Harry can register the absence of weight on the bed beside him, Louis has disappeared from the room and pulled the door closed behind him.

Harry is frozen on the bed, gasping at the thin air, his pulse the only movement in the room as his heartbeat throbs painfully in his chest.

* * * * *

[Move Together - James Bay](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mXrNAqBPpH4)

_“To love is good, too: love being difficult. For one human being to love another: that is perhaps the most difficult of all our tasks, the ultimate, the last test and proof, the work for which all other work is but preparation.”_

The door whispers open on its hinges, and Liam’s head slips through the narrow opening. Harry caps his red pen, tucking it into the hair at the base of his sloppy bun.

“‘M I interrupting anything?” Liam asks quietly from the doorway. When Harry shakes his head, Liam steps into the room, closing the door softly behind him. “What are you reading?”

“Letters to a Young Poet,” Harry answers. He dog-ears the page beside the quote he just underlined, then snaps the book shut, placing it on the bedside table.

“‘S that that Rain guy?”

Harry nods. “Rainer Maria Rilke, yeah. What’s up?”

Liam crosses to the other side of the room, dropping into one of the chairs in front of the window. “I wanted to talk to you about Louis.”

Harry’s heart drops into his stomach, and he barely suppresses a pained sound. “What did he tell you?”

Liam cocks his head slightly to the side, confused. “What did he—? Nothing, I was just thinking of some wardrobe stuff…” He trails off, then, pulling one leg up to cross an ankle over his thigh. “Why, is there something he should have told me?”

“No,” Harry replies quickly with a shake of his head. “Definitely not. What wardrobe stuff?”

“Well, it’s been bloody hot, being June and all, and I think more tanks would be...hey.” Liam leans forward in his chair. “What’s the matter?”

“What? Nothing.” Harry kicks one foot over the edge of the bed, swinging it casually.

Liam squints, and Harry wishes Liam didn’t know him as well as he does. Wishes he could hide if he wanted to. Wishes Liam would just let him retreat.

“Harry,” Liam whispers. “Did you talk to Louis?”

“Uh. No,” Harry answers. He drops his head, avoiding eye contact.

“I know he stayed over here last night,” Liam explains. “Did something...happen?”

Harry shakes his head. “Not what you’re thinking.”

“Did you two…”

“We kissed, okay? He kissed me.”

Liam slides in his chair until his entire back is pressed up against the plush upholstery. He sighs, and Harry feels the weight of it from across the room on the bed. “Did he—”

“It was nothing,” Harry cuts him off. “It was sort of an emotional conversation, his single hit number one, he had a strong reaction. You know how Louis is with people when he gets like that. Cuddly.”

Liam hesitates, exhaling a long breath. “You think it meant nothing?”

“Of course it meant nothing,” Harry replies, exasperated. “I’m just a friend to him, he’s said so countless times.”

“Do you think you should at least talk about it with him? I mean, it would be understandable, I think, to ask what he’s thinking right now.”

“What, like ask if he _meant_ the kiss?”

“Yeah,” Liam shrugs. “It’s a perfectly logical question.”

“No,” Harry says.

“No?”

“No, Liam. I already know the answer.” Harry’s shoulders fall as he speaks. “Why would I ask him a question that would force him to say it to my face?”

“Fine,” Liam replies, leaning forward with his elbows on his thighs. “What’s your better idea, then?”

Harry hates that Liam seems so unconvinced. He hates that Liam always asks the right questions.

“I’m going to spend less time with him. If I’m—if I feel the way I do, and he doesn’t feel the same, this shit is going to happen all the time. It means nothing to him, but it means way too much to me, and that’s a recipe for disaster.”

“You really think that’s the solution?” Liam asks.

“I don’t fucking _know_ , Liam,” Harry snaps. 

Liam flinches slightly. “I’m just trying to help you think through this a little more. I don’t want you to do anything rash.”

“I need to get over this, whatever _this_ is.” Harry waves a hand in circles in front of him. “I can’t do that if I keep spending all my time with him. Because god knows I’m shit at pretending.”

“Yeah, but, humour me for a moment.” Liam steeples his fingers together, waits until Harry meets his gaze to continue talking. “If he _does_ feel the same—”

“He doesn’t.”

“But _if_ he does. Would you really risk the possibility of ever finding that out?”

“If he was in love with me, he would have told me by now.”

“You haven’t told him how _you_ feel,” Liam argues.

“No, but that’s _different_ ,” Harry says. 

“Is it?”

Harry groans in place of an answer, and drops his head to stare down at his lap. 

After a long, heavy silence, Liam sighs. “You’ve made your decision already, haven’t you?”

Harry nods. “I have.”

“Okay.” Liam studies his hands in his lap, then nods to himself. “Alright.” He pushes off the chair, and walking halfway across the room, he stops at the end of the bed to reach out one hand and give Harry’s shoulder a brief squeeze. “Well, if you need anything, you know where to find me.”

When Liam reaches the door, he pauses with one hand on the knob, then turns his head over his shoulder to glance back at Harry. “About the tanks, d’you want me to take care of those?”

“Could you?” Harry whispers.

“Of course,” Liam replies, and then he’s gone. 

Harry slides off the bed, pulling his suitcase out from underneath it. His things remain mostly packed, with a few stray items draped over the end of the bed, which he folds and tucks into his suitcase alongside his other clothing. His trembling fingers draw the zipper closed with a ragged, metallic sound that’s much too jarring. The feeling of _ending_ burns under his fingernails.

In his mind, he begins to take steps. _One._ His hotel room just smells like milk and sugar, not like Louis' coffee. _Two._ The muted telly just plays a rerun of Friends, not the show Harry and Louis love to watch together. Three. The dirty room service dishes on the floor beside the bed just bear remnants of eggs and toast, not of Louis' favourite breakfast. _Four._ Harry Styles is just homesick, not lovesick over a blue-eyed, beautiful boy.

Harry Styles, afraid of hurting someone.

Harry Styles walks away.

* * * * *

[Michigan - The Milk Carton Kids](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WEDnGAvjQXw)

The first time Harry sees Louis after the incident, it’s in the dressing room at the arena that night, and Harry is already twenty steps away. Louis slips in looking soft and syrupy sweet in a jumper that stretches past his hands, and he glances warily at Harry through hazy eyelashes. Harry sucks down a gulp of water from the bottle in his hand and excuses himself quietly, holding up his phone and murmuring something about needing to take this call. Never mind the fact that it wasn’t even ringing. Never mind the fact that Louis clearly saw right through him. Never mind that he always had, since day one.

Liam handles the wardrobe that evening, as Harry never doubted he could. When Harry returns after the show to help with the packing up, he mumbles something about enjoying being able to watch the show from the audience tonight. He’s met with an aching silence, and he knows Liam doesn’t need to see his red-rimmed eyelids to know that he’d spend the two hours on the tile of the bathroom floor, his knees drawn to his chest, weeping violently.

The next morning, Harry’s alarm wails from his bedside table and he flings out one arm, groping blindly for the right button to silence the brash ringing. He climbs slowly out of bed, limb by limb, and shrugs into the same pair of joggers and the same white v-neck he wears every morning. Louis would always tease him about this habit. ‘Reverse pyjamas,’ he’d call them. This morning, they just smell like Louis' sheets.

He tiptoes over to the coffee machine on the dark mahogany table beside the telly and presses brew. He brushes his teeth while he waits, and when the high-pitched beep sounds, he pours two cups of coffee out of habit. One, he drinks before it’s cool enough, and it burns his tongue on the way down. The other grows cold on the table.

* * * * *

The next day is a day off, and Harry escapes from the hotel under the guise of going wardrobe shopping. He steps onto the busy West Hollywood street and starts in the direction of Melrose Avenue, but he finds himself wandering aimlessly into a tiny coffee shop with dim lighting and worn leather armchairs. He orders a cappuccino, and sips it by the window, watching people as they walk by. When he finally leaves hours later, the barista offers him a pitying glance and a bag of free muffins. Harry politely declines, would have reassured her that no thanks, he’s fine. If it were true.

When he returns to the hotel room, he undresses slowly and carefully, his fingers fluttering over his buttons to undo them one by one. He shrugs out of his shirt, and eases his trousers off his hips, dropping them onto the floor. His feet whisper across the carpet as he pads into the en suite, the marble of the floor sending shocks of cold up through the soles of his feet. 

Two candles are lit on the porcelain tub, and Harry draws a bath just shy of too hot, dipping three fingers into the water to test its temperature. A large iPhone dock sits off to the side near the sink, and he plugs his phone in at the top, tapping out a song selection. The second movement of Haydn’s 88th symphony drifts mournfully through the steamy air of the en suite as Harry lowers himself into the scalding water, the hair of his arms prickling with pleasure. 

Lowering his hands below the surface, he cups his palms to draw water up to the smooth skin of his face, warm droplets clinging to his eyelashes as he breathes in deeply. The water smells herbal and clean, and he sinks down into the water, allowing his head to be fully submerged below the surface.

When he emerges, he hears a soft knock at the door to his room. His pulse picks up beneath his wrists, and he freezes, his chin still submerged below the bubbles. Another knock, then a soft click as the door is pushed open.

“Harry?”

Harry’s blood thunders furiously in his head as he recognizes Louis' voice. He prays that he won’t reach for the door to the en suite, won’t come in and see Harry here, won’t force Harry to look for too long into the beautiful, beautiful eyes that weaken him and make him dizzy.

“Harry, are you here?”

Louis must hear the music through the door. How could he not? It’s the loudest part of the piece, the harsh dissonance, the orchestra playing in unison. Harry wills his stammering heartbeat to be still, imagines that Louis can hear his shaky breathing.

“I just...was wondering if we could…” comes the voice just outside the door to the en suite.

Harry holds his breath. _If we could what?_ he thinks. _I’d do anything._ He sinks lower into the water, and now his mouth, too, is covered by the bubbles. Too big a risk. His mouth, uncovered, would cry out to Louis, helpless to his wishful heart.

“Just wanted to…” Louis tries again.

The song ends, and the third movement begins. The notes nearly cover Louis' quiet sigh, the hushed movement across the carpet, the muffled turn of the door on its hinges, the heavy silence of Louis' exit.

Harry sinks the rest of the way underwater, pushing both hands over his hair and behind his head. He breathes out through his nose, empties his lungs of air, counts slowly to ten.

With each count, he takes another step away from Louis. _One._ This is the hard part. _Two._ It will get easier. _Three._ This is the right thing…

* * * * *

[Be Here Now - Ray LaMontagne](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vl3V0dTRDvI)

After a week in California, they pack up and leave for Phoenix, Arizona. It’s a Monday morning.

They had Saturday and Sunday off, and Harry had spent both days in Liam’s hotel room, where he knew Louis would never look for him. Two days, then. Two days, that’s how long he goes without so much as a glimpse of Louis.

It’s seven minutes after eight when it happens again.

“Hey, mate,” Harry hears from behind him. He whirls around, and Louis is small and sad behind him, his eyes turned heavily downward.

“Oh, hey,” Harry mumbles.

“Why are you out here?” Louis asks, gesturing to the scenery. Harry has stepped out the back door of the hotel, and stands waiting on the brick wall for Liam to bring the car around, the car that will take them to the airport, where they will board separately from Louis.

Harry shifts his bag on his shoulder, runs one hand through his tangled curls. “Just waiting for the car.”

“Why are you driving separately?”

The _from me_ the question implies at the end hangs in the air between them like a thick cloud.

“Um,” Harry clears his throat. “I think...I think Liam might be meeting up with Sophia at the airport,” he lies.

“Wasn’t Sophia just visiting last month?” Louis asks.

“Uh, yeah.”

“Are you flying with them, then?”

“Yeah,” Harry repeats.

“Okay.”

There’s a beat of uncomfortable silence, and Louis pulls a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and flicks his lighter, pulling a long drag of smoke into his mouth. The conversation lasts two minutes. The cigarette lasts seven. When it’s over, Louis mumbles, “See you in Phoenix, then,” and he’s gone.

Nine minutes. It’s not enough. It’s never enough, though, and Harry guesses that’s what got him here in the first place. It’s never been enough.

* * * * *

“Are you even listening to me?”

Harry sits cross-legged on the hotel room floor, Liam sprawled out on the bed flipping through a room service menu. He’s on his stomach, and his legs swing over him in the air.

Harry shakes out a pair of jeans, then folds them carefully in half. “I just don’t want anything in particular tonight, Jesus, Liam.” He adds the folded pair of jeans to their rightful pile in the box of Louis’ concert clothes.

“That’s a no, then.” Liam snaps the menu shut and drops it onto the floor. “I asked you a question.”

“Oh.” Harry folds the next pair of jeans he selects from the pile of clothing beside him on the floor. “What was the question?”

“I asked how many times you’ve folded those clothes now.”

“What, these?” Harry gestures to the clothes pile. There are probably twelve shirts and five pairs of jeans on the floor next to him, and several more folded and placed in the box. He’s been doing it all evening. He folds every shirt, creases every pair of jeans, tucks in every pocket and zips every zipper, arranging everything in perfect piles in their storage box. Then he turns the box over onto the floor and starts all over again. When the clothes tumble to the floor, Harry is smacked with a whiff of Louis’ smell, as if he’d just walked by, as if he were here and not what feels like a million miles away. “This is my first time,” he lies.

Harry wants to pry the look of pity off Liam’s face with his bare hands, but he’s too busy mechanically folding Louis’ white Adidas tank for the eighth time.

“If you’re going to look at me like that, just don’t look at me at all.”

“Like what?” Liam asks.

“Like I’m fucking porcelain,” Harry snaps. “Look, just because you don’t think me not talking to Louis is the right decision doesn’t give you the right to be all high and mighty. It’s possible to be fucking _wrong_ about something, although I know _that’s_ a pill you don’t know how to swallow.”

Liam is silent, but his expression doesn’t change.

“And by the way, I don’t need your fucking pity.” Harry balls up the tank top in his hands and throws it back on top of the clothing pile as he spits out the last word like poison. His hands fall, empty, into his lap.

Liam slowly swings his legs over the edge of the bed and lowers himself to the floor. He inhales slowly. “Are you done?”

Harry hangs his head. He has a throbbing headache. “Yeah.”

A warm hand slides up between Harry’s shoulder blades. It’s much too gentle, just too _much_ , and Harry begins to weep. Sobs rip through his whole body, and he’s curled over, his head nearly in his lap. Ugly sounds escape his mouth, but he can’t bring himself to stop it.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Harry gasps. “I’m such a dick, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay, it’s alright,” Liam murmurs. “Please just cry.”

“Th-thank you,” Harry chokes, covering his hands with his face. Tears seep out through the cracks between his fingers.

“Talk to him,” Liam whispers. “Please talk to him.”

Harry can’t bring himself to say it again. Liam has no idea what he’s asking. Harry would rather feel this way every day for the rest of his life than have to hear Louis tell him flat out that he doesn’t love him. He’d rather keep that truth inside him, despite how much it aches, because at least it’s pain on his own terms.

But he can’t tell Liam that. Not now. So he just nods, and when Liam leaves later that night, Harry folds Louis’ clothes five more times. Five letters in ‘Louis.’ Five letters in ‘never.’

* * * * *

One morning, Harry wakes up and checks Twitter first thing. A new article has been posted, and Louis’ name is in the headline.

**LOUIS TOMLINSON A HOMEWRECKER? SOURCE OPENS UP ABOUT LOUIS’ ALLEGED AFFAIR WITH MARRIED MODEL**

He can’t even bring himself to read past the first sentence. He pictures Louis, alone, reading this, willing himself to believe that it doesn’t hurt. Dying to convince himself that he’s not humiliated in his own hotel room.

Harry curls over, clutches his pillow to his face, and screams until he can’t think anymore.

* * * * *

The show starts in three hours and Louis will get here in probably fifteen minutes, if he’s on the same schedule he always is.

Harry clenches his hands in tight fists at his sides, because, yes, okay, he can do this.

He hasn’t dressed Louis in two full weeks, and Liam insisted that it’s time. 

Which, fine. Because he can _do_ this.

When Louis opens the door, it’s hesitant and wary, and it contains none of the usual enthusiasm of a Louis Tomlinson entrance. 

He’s gorgeous in a dark grey jumper that drapes over his shoulders and pools around his waist. Black jeans cling to his firm, rounded thighs. They’re the ones with the sticky zipper, Harry notices, but it looks like he managed them today. His long fingers are curled around Harry’s copy of _On the Road_.

“Hey,” Louis says, his voice coming out worn.

“Hi,” Harry replies.

“I brought your, uh,” Louis lifts the book up so that Harry can see the cover, then shoves it toward him. “Your book. Finished it on the jet. Thanks for letting me borrow it.”

It’s the voice, the soft voice wound with vulnerability that Harry is helpless not to love.

“Oh, thanks.” Harry takes the book from Louis' outstretched hand, flipping absently through the pages, then places it on the sofa next to him. “What did you think?”

Louis nods. “Good, yeah. Liked it better this time.”

All of Harry's dog-eared pages have been unfolded, save for one small fold. He wonders if it could have been a mistake, a folded corner Louis missed, or if Louis could have marked it himself. His fingers itch to flip to the bookmarked page, to check what passage resonated with Louis' complex and beautiful mind, and he resolves to check once he's alone in his hotel room.

“Good,” Harry says. “Hoped I might be able to change your mind.”

Louis exhales a restrained laugh, glancing down at his feet, which he shuffles across the carpeted floor. He inhales then, and lifts his head to scan the room. Harry follows Louis' gaze, and his eyes land on the clothing rack against the wall on the other side of the room. 

“Oh.” Harry’s mouth is dry, and he feels a pressure in the back of his neck that threatens to turn into a dull headache. “Um. So it looks like tonight is going to be a cooler night, so…” He steps toward the clothing rack, reaching for a black jacket with three white stripes down the sleeves. “A jacket, maybe?”

Louis nods, but his gaze is directed at the jacket in Harry’s hand, not at Harry’s eyes. “Yeah. Jacket, definitely.” He walks up next to Harry, thumbing through the garments hanging on their metal hangers. “What about something with colour, something…”

Colour. Right, Harry knows just the thing. He reaches for a green jacket at the other end of the rack at the same time Louis does, and their hands brush, fingers against fingers. Harry draws back as if from an electric shock, and Louis' ears instantly flush a bright red.

“Sorry,” Harry mumbles. “You can...go ahead.”

It just...it _hurts_ , is the thing. Flinching from the slightest touch, as if they haven’t spent hours curled into one another, hands to beating hearts, arms around trembling shoulders. As if they haven’t come to define time with one another by the comfort of casual touches. It hurts because this flinching, hiding, avoiding—this isn’t what they do. This isn’t who they are.

It’s a strange and excruciating feeling, missing someone even as they’re standing in front of you, close enough to touch but too far away to reach. And as Louis shrugs into his green jacket, staring intently at the ground, Harry tries and fails a thousand times in his head to make sense of all of this. The closer he stays, the harder he falls—he’s helpless to it, caught up in the whirlwind of Louis' dizzying beauty. But the harder he falls, the more tangled things get, and the more likely it is to come crashing down in a hurricane of desire and jealousy and feelings that are wrong, wrong, wrong to have about your best mate. 

But the farther away he retreats, the more Louis avoids eye contact, hides his face, curls into himself. He’s been smoking more, Harry can tell. And sleeping less. Bruises paint dull half-moons beneath his eyes, and they look like dark stains against his unusually pale skin.

It throbs painfully in Harry’s chest, stirs up nausea in the pit of his stomach—the realization that no matter what he does, he is the reason for Louis' pain. Louis, sweet Louis, horribly misunderstood Louis, has been fucked over again and this time it’s all because Harry is useless at loving people. Can’t remember if they like milk or cream. Can’t give a kiss without also leaving a bruise.

The feeling is too much to bear, and when Louis slips silently through the dressing room door and out into the hallway, Harry locks himself in the bathroom, his jaw aching from gritting his teeth, afraid he might vomit.

 _My sweet blue-eyed boy,_ he thinks, clutching his stomach, dry heaves contorting his body. Nothing comes up, but hot tears sting in his eyes from the effort. _I’m hurting him._

He leans back against the cool metal of the bathroom stall and lets his aching head fall onto his knees. His body shakes with ugly, choked sobs. _I miss him._

* * * * *

When Harry returns to his hotel room that night, the air is too thin, too sterile. He walks to the window and throws it open, humid summer breeze bursting into the room. It smells wet and earthy, and he breathes it in like he’s desperate for oxygen.

He sinks onto the bed, his back rounded and folded over itself. His bag falls onto the duvet next to him, and he hunts through it with both hands, digs out his copy of _On the Road_. With trembling fingers, he flips through the pages until he reaches the only dog-eared corner. He opens to the page.

There are a few familiar ruler-straight underlines in red pen, the colour Harry always uses to write in his books. But in the centre of the page, there’s an unfamiliar colour. Green marker, scribbled shakily underneath a handful of lines in the centre of the page.

_But why think about that when all the golden lands ahead of you and all kinds of unforeseen events wait lurking to surprise you and make you glad you're alive to see?_

It’s a message. It has to be a message. He frantically flips through the rest of the book, searching for more lines denoted by green marker, but the folded page contains the only green scribble.

Louis had unfolded all the other corners, making certain that Harry would notice his.

Harry’s heartbeat thunders in his ears, and he digs in his pocket for his phone. His shaking fingers fly over the screen, tapping out a hurried message. He makes a few errors, but he sends the message anyway. Louis may or may not be awake, but Harry’s body is charged with furious, white-hot energy and he _needs to know_ , has never needed anything more.

_You unedrlined soemthing?_

The response comes almost immediately, and he feels it in every limb of his body when his phone vibrates in his hand. 

**yeah, is that ok?**

His fingers can’t tap fast enough.

_What does it mean?_

When the response lights up on his screen, Harry feels like he might pass out.

**you’ll find out**

He reads it over and over again until his eyes grow heavy and weighed down by sleep. When sleep finally calls him under, he dreams of a reassembly of time, a universe where time moves backward, from dawn to dusk; where beginnings are drawn from endings like wildflowers from the soil.

* * * * *

It’s half four the next day when it happens.

Harry and Liam are both on the dressing room sofa, one at each end, tossing grapes into one another’s mouths to kill time when it happens.

“Harry, we have to talk.”

Louis is in the doorway, looking calm, composed. His feet are spread, his weight evenly distributed and his posture assertive.

Liam reaches down to squeeze Harry’s ankle reassuringly. “Text when you’re ready, mate,” he whispers.

Harry nods gratefully, and Louis steps into the dressing room to make room for Liam to exit. He closes the door, and Harry swings his legs around and onto the floor. Louis takes a few steps forward, and Harry shoves off the sofa to meet him halfway. 

The only hint of nervousness beneath Louis' determined demeanor are a few beads of sweat that gather along his hairline. Harry’s hands are trembling to reach out to Louis, to take hold of him, to pull him tight into his chest and never let go, so he shoves them into his pockets and furrows his brow slightly.

“Yeah?” Harry prods. His voice is low, and it contains more breath than sound.

Like the sweat on Louis' brow, his voice, too, betrays him. It comes out shaky as he begins, “First of all, I feel like shit—”

“ _You_ feel like shit, I—” Harry interrupts.

“Please,” Louis whispers. “Let me. I—I practiced this, and I just have to go for it.”

“Right, sure,” Harry nods. He swallows thickly. His knees shake.

“Yeah. I feel like shit for what happened in your hotel room two weeks ago. For, like—you know. When I kissed you.”

The bottom of Harry’s stomach drops out, and all of the blood rushes from his head.

“But I’m not—” Louis continues. He pauses, takes a deep breath, clenches his jaw. He shakes his head slightly, then sets his chin, as if to convince himself to continue. When he begins again, his voice is stronger, more firm. “I’m not sorry, though. I mean, yeah, I’m sorry for fucking everything up, I’m sorry for freaking you out, but I’m not sorry for kissing you.” 

He takes another step closer. “I fucking hate that you can’t look me in the eye anymore, but if this is going to be the end of things for us, then before you go, I at least need you to know the truth. I need you to—to know, that…” He takes another step. He’s so close that Harry can’t find one place on Louis' face to focus on, so his eyes just desperately search every square centimetre of space and it’s all so much because this is the closest they’ve been in weeks. “I meant that kiss. I meant it, Harry, and I don’t care if you never want to speak to me again, but I can’t keep pretending it didn’t happen because—because I’m in love with you. And that’s…”

The floor shifts below Harry’s feet, and he sways, feels like he might pass out.

“You’re—”

“Yeah,” Louis breathes. “I am.”

“Say that again.”

Confused, Louis' eyes flicker between Harry’s, and he lowers his voice to a cautious whisper. “I’m...in love with you.”

Harry lifts a hand to Louis' waist, uses it to pull him still closer, until there is only a breath of space between them. Realization flickers across the pools of Louis' eyes. 

“Again,” Harry murmurs.

“Harry Styles,” Louis whispers. “I am… _foolishly_...in love with you.”

The last thing Harry sees before his eyes fall closed are Louis' long eyelashes, curling up more in the corners than in the centre, then he sees nothing and his senses are invaded by Louis, Louis, _Louis_.

Harry lifts Louis' chin with two fingers, and blue eyes meet green, thunder meet lightning, dusk meet dawn, their lips meet in a collision of light and colour and this time it’s right, _this time_ Louis melts into Harry’s arms, and his lips taste like a thousand _finally_ s. 

Instantly, their bodies are pressed together as if they’re both trying to make up for lost time, and Louis' searching fingers climb up Harry’s neck and into his hair, pulling him still closer. Harry thinks he might be cupping Louis' jaw, but his hands and feet are numb, and all he can feel is the way Louis opens for him as he tests with his tongue, their lips moving together in perfect rhythmic synchrony. When Harry leads, Louis follows, sucking gently at his lips.

“Louis?” Harry whispers against Louis' lips.

Louis presses another kiss to Harry’s mouth, pushing his lips open to explore with his tongue. His hand falls from Harry’s hair and down his back, sending shivers up Harry’s spine, and he slips one hand under his shirt. Louis' palm is hot on Harry’s lower back, and he hums with pleasure into Louis' mouth.

“Hmmm?” Louis replies.

Harry presses three soft kisses to Louis' lips, in succession, after each one whispering, “I love you, I love you, I love you.” As he speaks, he reaches his hand back to wind his fingers in Louis' hair.

A quiet moan rips through Louis from somewhere deep in his throat, and he draws Harry back into a crushing kiss, his teeth grazing the soft flesh of Harry’s bottom lip. Harry meets every movement of Louis' needy lips, and when Louis begins to press a trail of kisses across his chin and down his neck, Harry circles his arms around Louis' back and holds him tight, pressing his nose into his hair and breathing in his spicy sweet scent. He holds him as if he might float away, but he knows he won’t. This time, he won’t.

“I missed you,” Harry murmurs.

“I'm sorry I let this go on so long,” Louis says into the fabric of Harry's shirt.

Stroking Louis' hair, Harry shakes his head slowly. “No, don't apologize. I should have done more. I should have...” Harry lowers his head, flattens his cheek on top of Louis' hair. Louis' thumbs are making small circles on the sensitive skin of Harry's lower back. “I was scared. I didn't think you felt the same way, and I was afraid of my feelings getting in the way and ruining whatever it was we had.”

“That's what I thought I'd done, but...” Louis pulls back to look up at Harry. “I had to know what it would feel like.”

“What what would feel like?”

“Kissing you. When I kissed you in your hotel room, I was tired of imagining and I had to _know_. I was so afraid I'd fucked everything up.”

Harry pulls Louis into another kiss, and Louis replies so gently it nearly brings tears to Harry’s eyes.

“Now you know,” Harry whispers.

“Why think about that...when all the golden lands ahead of you and all kinds of unforeseen events…” Louis lifts a hand to cup the right ride of Harry’s face, his thumb rubbing soft, slow circles over his cheek. “...wait lurking to surprise you and make you glad you’re alive to see?”

Harry leans down to press his forehead to Louis'. “That’s what you underlined.”

Louis nods. “It is.”

“Why?”

“I am so glad,” Louis murmurs, dropping a kiss to Harry’s nose. “I am alive to see you.”

Harry runs his thumb across the soft, pink skin of Louis' lips. It feels foreign, the idea that he can touch when he wants to touch. Knowing Louis wants this just as much.

Louis drops his head, glancing up shyly through his eyelashes under Harry's gaze. “What?”

“I don't know,” Harry says. “I just...you have no idea.”

Louis places another soft kiss on Harry's lips. “Try me.”

“You have no idea how long I have wanted this.”

He lifts Louis' chin again, and kisses him deeply as if to clarify everything that ‘this’ is. He feels Louis smile into it, and when he licks into his mouth, he feels teeth.

“What?” Harry giggles. “Kiss me back.”

Louis cards his fingers through Harry's hair, starting from his forehead and ending behind his neck. His eyes flicker back and forth between Harry's. “Do you know how long I've loved you?”

Harry shakes his head. “Tell me.”

Louis grins. “Do you remember James Corden?“

“Of course,” Harry answers, his eyes widening. “Back in November?”

“Yep,” Louis nods. He interlaces his fingers behind Harry's neck, and Harry is sharply aware that they haven't let go of one another since Louis started talking. He wouldn't want it any other way. “Liam was talking about pastries and you said something about how my favourite biscuits are the raspberry jelly ones and I just...I knew.”

Harry laughs. “Raspberry jelly, who knew it was such an aphrodisiac?” 

“I fucked up my interview because of it. Have you ever watched it? It was shit.”

November. Louis had been in love with him all along. 

Harry pulls Louis into him and nuzzles his face into Louis' neck. Louis kisses the top of his head, then pushes their bodies gently apart. “I have a confession to make,” he says solemnly.

“Sure, babe,” Harry answers, furrowing his brow.

“I like that. Call me that all the time, please.” Louis reaches down and weaves his fingers through Harry's. “My confession is...well, remember when you hemmed my shirt and then it got ripped out and you had to redo it?”

“Yes,” Harry chuckles.

“I did that on purpose. I had to see you, so I ripped the bloody stitches out.”

Harry's eyes bulge, and he laughs, his head thrown back. “You're so ridiculous,” he giggles. He pulls the hand that's tangled with Louis' up to his chest and unfurls Louis' fingers. He presses a kiss to the centre of Louis' palm, and folds Louis' fingers over it into a fist. “Now you have this.” He covers Louis' fist with both hands. “If you ever need a kiss from me while you're on stage.”

They're kissing again, and it's hot and wet this time, and their breath comes in warm staccato puffs. Harry wonders how many minutes they've spent kissing since Louis came in this afternoon. 

“Louis,” Harry mumbles.

Louis mouths hungrily at Harry's jawline, and his hand dips under Harry's shirt, fanning his fingers out across the flat muscles of his stomach. “Mmm,” he murmurs into Harry's neck. “Let me do this.”

“Louis,” Harry tries again. “Your show. We need to get you dressed.”

Louis groans, and sinks his teeth into the thin skin that stretches over Harry’s collarbone. “No. Wrong.”

“Actually, y-yes—”

“You’ve kept me waiting six months,” Louis hums, sucking a kiss to the centre of Harry’s throat, “and you’re telling me…” His teeth graze Harry’s pulse point, sending a shiver through his body. “...to put my clothes _on_?”

Harry’s body stiffens when he feels three fingers slip below the waist of his trousers. “Louis, I’m trying to be p-professional.”

“We’ve been professional for _six months_ ,” Louis mumbles.

“Louis.”

Louis lifts his head to look at Harry, and both of his hands find their way into the curls at the back of Harry’s head. His eyes are deep and wild as he whispers, “Come to my room tonight.”

Harry catches his bottom lip between his teeth, a smile teasing at the corner of his mouth. “Okay.” They fall into a bruising, needy kiss, wet noises escaping between the slide of tongues between lips. “Okay,” Harry repeats against Louis' mouth.

When Louis pulls away and shrugs into his green jacket, with his cotton candy blue eyes and his cherry-stained mouth, it feels like Harry blinked and missed a sunrise. Like one moment the sky was ink-stained and silent and the next moment it was split open and flecked with gold and fire, and he missed the part in between where anticipation builds, when the light begins to seep out from the horizon. Without warning, things had become vastly different.

Louis was in love with him when they watched Notting Hill with gingerbread liqueur breath. 

Louis was in love with him when he tucked him into bed, a drunk and babbling mess, after Nick’s birthday party.

Louis was in love with him when they spent their mornings sipping coffee and trying to catch handfuls of coco pops in their yawning mouths.

Louis is in love with him _right now_.

When Louis slides his feet into a pair of black Vans and points a thumb over his shoulder toward the door, Harry threads his fingers together behind his back and dips his head. “I, uh...I love you.”

Louis twists his hand around the doorknob, grins, proudly declares, “I _love_ you, Harry Styles.”

When Louis disappears into the hall and the opening notes of the show begin to echo from the arena, the familiar feeling of _not enough_ burns in Harry’s chest, but this time, there’s no pain with it. This time, it comes with an echo: _soon_. And even though Louis is on stage, he’s here, somehow. He’s here in a way he never has been before, and Harry leans back on the sofa and feels glad to be alive.

* * * * *

“Welcome to my home,” Louis says, shouldering the door open and lifting an arm to gesture inside. “Not much, but, you know. It’s mine.”

“This is your hotel room,” Harry giggles, but he steps over the threshold and onto the plush carpet. He lowers his bags onto the floor with a quiet thud. Louis follows behind him, and a soft click sounds as the door is slowly pulled closed. They’re alone together and shrouded in darkness, two things they have been many times before, but this time it feels heavy and Harry finds it difficult to breathe. 

“It is,” Louis murmurs, trailing his fingers up Harry’s bare arm, causing his hair to stand on end. “And you’re here now, too.”

Louis catches Harry’s bottom lip between his teeth, and Harry leans forward, drawing Louis into a kiss. Their lips whisper together in the dark silence of the hotel room, and Louis slowly walks Harry backward until his back is pressed up against the wall. 

“Is this weird for you?” Louis asks, his breath hot on Harry’s skin. Harry inhales and catches the words in his mouth, swallowing them like warm cinnamon tea.

“Not weird,” Harry replies, dropping a kiss to the corner of Louis' mouth. “Surreal, maybe.”

“Surreal for me, too.”

Harry places his hands on either side of Louis' waist, pulling his body flush against his own. “Makes me want it that much more. Didn’t let myself think about it for six months and now I just _want_ and want and—”

His words drop off, swallowed by a startled gasp as Louis slips a thigh between Harry’s legs. His head spins, dizzy with desire.

“What do you want?”

“I want you,” Harry whimpers, grinding down on Louis' thigh.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear,” Louis smirks as he kisses a stripe down the front of Harry’s throat and Harry throws his head back for easier access.

“I said, I fucking _want you_ ,” Harry gasps, and Louis sinks his teeth into the meaty flesh where his neck meets his right shoulder.

Louis clutches handfuls of Harry’s shirt in both fists and thrusts his hips upward, pressing their cocks together. Harry groans loudly into Louis' hair, and his back arches away from the wall. 

“Take me, then.”

A growl tears its way from Harry’s throat, and Louis' words jolt him like a surge of electricity. He places both palms on Louis' chest and pushes him backward, trapping him against the opposite wall with his legs on either side of Louis'. He pants into their frantic kiss, his breath coming in needy gasps as he rips Louis' jacket off his shoulders. Their touches are white hot, completely foreign compared to the intimate sweetness in the dressing room earlier that evening. Hours later, the sweetness has faded like the powdered sugar layer of a cinnamon drop, and sharp desire has electrified every movement, every jagged breath.

Louis' hands are heavy on Harry’s arse, and he grunts against Louis' lips when he feels his fingers dig into the flesh through his trousers. Once Louis' jacket has been dropped on the floor by their feet, Harry slides his hands under Louis' shirt and up his stomach, and he feels Louis' muscles ripple as he tenses them under Harry’s touch, a hiss escaping from between his lips.

“Take it off,” Louis whispers, his voice hurried and desperate. 

Harry hums a sound of agreement, and pulls back to create just enough space to tug Louis' t-shirt over his head, then he sears their lips back together. The skin of Louis' torso is smooth as butter beneath Harry’s palms.

“You’re so gorgeous,” Harry breathes. He lowers his head to sprinkle kisses across Louis' collarbone. Louis sighs happily, tangling his hand in Harry’s hair. He shivers at the contact between lips and bare skin, and Harry wishes he were a poet so he could capture in words the mixture of awe and raw desire of feeling Louis' heartbeat beneath his lips.

Harry glances up at Louis, makes wild eye contact with him as he watches Harry work his way down his body. “Can I?”

Louis shudders in Harry’s hands. “ _Fuck_ , Harry. Yeah, p-please.”

Harry slips his hand between Louis' legs, and squeezes him through his jeans. 

“Oh,” Louis gasps. “Fuck, this is—” Harry presses harder, massaging him deeper. “— _fuck_ , this is going to be embarrassing.”

There’s a soft metallic sound as Harry tugs on the zipper of Louis' jeans. He pulls them down below Louis' arse, and places his mouth mere centimetres from Louis' cock, covered only by a thin layer of fabric. He exhales a long, hot breath, and Louis writhes with desperation, groaning when his head makes contact with the wall behind him. 

“What’s the problem?” Harry murmurs.

“S-shit, Harry. How much longer are you going to make me—”

Harry pulls him out of his pants, and Louis cuts himself off with a loud moan when Harry sucks the tip of his cock into his mouth. Louis knots his fingers in Harry’s hair, and spreads his legs wide, thrusting forward slightly into Harry's mouth with his hips. Harry’s hands grip the meat of his round, muscled arse. 

Harry swirls his tongue around the head of Louis' cock, then pulls off with a loud popping sound. Louis' hips involuntarily snap forward, desperate to regain contact. 

“Please—” 

Harry swallows him all the way down, then, and Louis' eyes flutter closed. “Fuck yes,” he groans loudly, and Harry feels the tip of Louis' cock hit the back of his throat as he pulls Harry closer with fistfuls of hair.

Filthy words and noises drop from Louis' lips as Harry finds his rhythm, his head bobbing to match the thrusts of Louis' hips.

“Fuck, Harry—you feel so good— _oh_. I’m—you have to—”

Harry pulls off with a wet sound and licks a stripe along the underside of Louis' cock, dragging his tongue slowly from root to tip.

“You have,” Harry murmurs, wrapping his fingers around his wet cock to jerk him at an agonizingly slow rhythm, “the most gorgeous cock I have ever seen.”

Louis inhales sharply through slightly swollen lips. “I’m—oh god, I’m dying, I’m not going to last long.”

Harry kisses the tip of Louis' cock, then follows a straight line up his torso until he reaches his lips. Their lips melt together, and Harry mumbles into it. “Neither of us will,” he admits. “Been wanting this so long.”

Louis nods, his tongue sliding between Harry’s lips. Harry can feel the hard line of his cock against his thigh, and the kisses have grown increasingly filthy and wet. 

“Louis,” he whispers.

“Yeah.”

“Let’s fuck like teenagers.”

With a loud groan, Louis' fingers tighten around Harry’s biceps, suffocating and sharp, and his entire body shudders. He begins to kick out of his jeans. “Bed,” he hisses. “ _Now_.”

They stumble across the room toward the bed, a tangled, fumbling mess of limbs and tongues and hot exhalations against cheeks. When they reach the bed, Harry falls backward, and Louis lands heavily on top of him, exhaling breathy giggles into the curve of Harry's neck. Louis pushes himself up until he is sitting upright, straddling Harry’s torso, his shins flat on the duvet on either side of Harry’s body. Harry spreads out on his back and flattens both palms on Louis' stomach. 

“Take your shirt off,” Louis says, and Harry immediately props himself up on his elbows to pull his shirt over his head. While he does, Louis pries the button open on Harry’s trousers and unzips them, climbing off of the bed to peel the tight trousers from his legs and drop them on the floor.

Harry spreads his thighs to allow Louis to slot himself between them, and his throbbing cock rests thick and heavy on his stomach.

Louis lowers himself over Harry’s torso until his face is a breath from Harry’s. “What do you want?”

“I should—I should fuck you. It's been longer for me since the last time I...” Harry pauses, tucks a strand of hair behind Louis' ear. “I'll be too tight. We're too impatient.”

Louis furrows his eyebrows. “How do you know it's been longer?”

“Well, that guy from LA. You always had stories about—why are you laughing?”

Louis lowers his forehead to Harry's chest, giggling. “There's no guy from LA.”

Harry flattens his palms to the duvet on either side of his body, walking them up until he's in a sitting position with Louis straddling his lap. His eyes bulge slightly. “There's not?”

“No, there's not.” Louis purses his lips, suppressing a smile. “I was trying to make you jealous.”

Harry gasps. “You _what_?”

“Wanted to see if I could get a reaction out of your stupidly calm arse.” Louis walks his fingers across Harry's chest, and a thumb ghosts over his nipple, sending a shiver through his upper body. “Didn't work, though.”

Harry's mouth flops open in surprise, and Louis chuckles quietly, pressing a kiss to the corner of Harry's mouth. 

“No guys,” Harry says. 

“None.”

Louis hunches his back to mouth at the sweet spot below Harry's jaw, just under his ear.

“Not one,” Harry murmurs.

Louis pushes Harry flat on his back again, and crawls forward to lean over him. “Not...” He lowers his mouth to Harry's, a hair's width from kissing him, and hums into his lips. “...one.”

Harry fists his hand in Louis' hair and pulls him the rest of the way into a bruising kiss. “Fuck me, then.”

Louis moans into the hot kiss. “Yeah?“

“Yeah.” Harry's other hand reaches down to grip the muscled curve of Louis' naked arse. “Want you inside me.”

Harry's body feels numb, save for the points where his skin meets Louis' in a collision of sparks and silky heat. Between their chests, their skin bursts into flames, and six months of need explodes through Harry's pores, erupting in a desire to end all desire.

Harry grips Louis' arse, tugging him down to grind their cocks together. Louis' grunts at the contact, and the sound sends a shock directly to Harry's cock. 

“Do you have—”

“ _Shit_.” Harry bolts upright, accidentally colliding with Louis' forehead. Louis hisses in pain and claps a hand over his head. “Oh my god, I'm so sorry,” Harry cries. “Louis, babe—are you okay?”

Louis' eyes are squeezed shut, his palm pressed against his forehead, but he giggles through his teeth. “Shit, Styles, what was that for?”

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you, I just—I don't think I have any lube—” Harry wiggles out from under Louis, and drops onto the floor to shuffle through his bags. His cock is painfully hard, and the moonlight that filters through the window catches Louis on the bed, stroking himself slowly, his lips dropping open. 

God, Harry _wants_ him. 

“Sorry, just—okay—” Harry rips into his red leather suitcase, shaking the contents of his toiletry bag into the carpet. There are three razors and five tubes of lotion, but not one container of lube. Arousal so blindingly hot pulses through his body in waves that he has difficulty steadying his hands long enough to undo the necessary zippers.

He forces his thoughts away from the little huffed breaths dropping from Louis' lips on the bed and tries to think where the _hell_ he might have kept a bottle of lube at some point.

“ _Oh_!” Harry cries out. He lunges for his black suede tote and fumbles with the inside zipper. His fingers search around inside the pocket until he feels a smooth, round shape. “I got it.”

Louis leans back on the pillows, spreading his legs, and Harry climbs onto the bed to lower himself between them. “I got it,” he repeats, holding up the bottle for Louis to see.

Louis giggles beneath Harry. “How old is it? That's the question.”

“Shut up.” Harry bends over and sucks at the skin of Louis' neck.

“No wonder you're so excited. It's been forever since you've been fucked,” Louis teases, tilting his head back so that the entirety of his throat is exposed.

“I said shut _up_.” Harry sinks his teeth into the skin of Louis' collarbone, earning a surprised squeal. “You're just as excited as I am.” The hand that holds the bottle of lube reaches for Louis', tangling their fingers together, the bottle pressed between their sweaty palms. “Gonna make it so worth the wait.”

“Give me that.” Louis curls his fingers around the bottle of lube. He presses himself upright until they are seated face to face on the bed, Louis' legs flung straight out on the duvet, and Harry between them, his own legs wrapped around Louis' waist. 

Louis snaps open the lid of the bottle, coating his fingers with lube. He feels cool and wet as he reaches his hand behind Harry to press a slick finger to his rim. He circles him slowly, then pushes one finger inside, and Harry moans, arching his back. 

“Oh god, fuck, Louis.”

The friction on his cock between them is simultaneously _too much_ and _not enough_ , and he thrusts his hips back to fuck himself on Louis' finger, desperate for more sensation, more of Louis. 

“More,” Harry groans. “Give me another one.”

Louis' mouth is hot and wet on Harry's jawline, and Harry can hear his breath catch in his throat as he happily obliges, adding a second finger. Already, something tight in Harry's stomach is beginning to unravel and he can feel himself coming apart at the seams below his fingertips.

“ _More_ , Louis.”

“Are you sure?” Louis asks. When Harry nods, he draws his hand back to dribble more lube on a third finger. As he pushes into Harry, Harry swears loudly, and he meets each thrust of Louis' hand with desperate twitches of his hips. 

“Oh _fuck_ , that’s so fucking good.”

Harry means to cover Louis' sweaty hair with a curtain of kisses, but he ends up panting hungrily into it instead, his fingers drawing clumsy tracks up Louis' back. “I'm ready. I'm ready.”

“You're—are you sure?”

“I'm ready,” Harry pants. “Just fuck me.”

“Harry, you're barely prepped—”

Harry thrusts his hips, fucks back hard onto Louis' fingers. “ _Please_ fuck me.”

Anything but _now now now_ feels like more and more waiting and Harry will never wait another moment to have Louis all over and around him, until nothing else feels real. Fuck waiting, Harry _wants_ and it's clumsy and messy but it's _Louis_.

“Okay,” Louis murmurs. “Okay, baby.” He tears open a condom with his teeth, dropping the wrapper onto the floor and rolling it on. He dribbles lube onto his cock, slicking himself up until he glistens in the blushing moonlight. “Lie back.”

Harry lowers himself onto the duvet on his back, his legs still wrapped around Louis' waist. Louis rises onto his knees, pumping his cock slowly in his left hand, guiding Harry's hips up with his right. Harry's fingers tremble as he reaches for Louis, guiding him to his rim, shuddering when he feels the tip of Louis' cock press against his entrance. He grinds down on it, arching his back to press his hips hungrily forward.

“Look at you.” Louis spreads a hand over Harry’s heaving torso, covered in a thin sheen of sweat, carefully avoiding Harry’s leaking cock. “Getting yourself all wet. Christ, you’re fucking gorgeous.” There’s pressure as Louis slides in, rocking his hips forward, and Harry hisses through his teeth. A fist clutches at the duvet, knuckles white, the tendons in his arm bulging through his flushed skin.

“Okay?” Louis asks, checking in. Harry nods, breathes through it. There’s a slight burn as Louis fills him up, but he’s clenching, aching for more something more inside. “Harry, open your eyes.”

Harry opens them and looks up at Louis, who is watching him intently, studying his face for signs of pleasure or pain. “Do you need to prep some more? I’ve got all night to make this perfect for you.”

“You’re already p-perfect— _fuck_ , just—” Harry digs the fingernails of his free hand into Louis' forearm. “Fuck me. Sick of—waiting.”

“Let me watch you,” Louis whispers, and when their eyes meet, Louis swears under his breath, lifts Harry’s hips, and thrusts forward the rest of the way. Harry wills his body to adjust around Louis' width, and a pleasant heat blooms inside him as he stretches and whimpers, holding Louis' gaze the whole time. “Fuck, you feel so good,” Louis exhales, rolling his hips slowly back, then thrusting forward again. 

“ _Fuck_ , Louis,” Harry breathes through shuddered gasps. “Come here.” He reaches up for a fistful of hair behind Louis' neck. “Kiss me.”

Louis shifts on his knees, leaning forward to stretch himself across Harry. With fingers in hair and nails across skin, they fall into a loud, hungry kiss. Their lips slot together, but after a few seconds, they’re just panting into one another’s mouths and Louis finds his rhythm, Harry bucking his hips to meet every thrust.

“I can’t believe— _fuck_ ,” Harry gasps into Louis' mouth. “I can’t believe we finally—oh my fucking—” He tosses his head back onto the bed, his chest heaving, his throat exposed.

“Mmmm,” Louis hums, leaning forward to swipe his tongue along Harry’s sharp jawline. “I know. You want— _oh_ —you want to know something?”

Harry swallows, breathless. “Yes.”

A drop of sweat falls from Louis' brow and lands on Harry’s neck, trickling down the curve of his shoulder and disappearing into his sweaty, tangled hair. 

“I wanted to fuck you in the club that night after the first photoshoot.”

Louis slams into him hard this time, and Harry gasps. The wet sensation of Louis' tongue on his neck grounds him. “Oh yeah?”

Another thrust. Louis draws back to suck a long kiss to Harry’s mouth, then he presses their foreheads together. “Yeah. And I wanted to—oh, god—wanted to fuck you in the dressing room on James Corden. And on New Year’s when you t-tasted like—like salted caramel.”

“Oh my god, Louis—right there, right _there_.” Harry spreads his legs wide, his ankles linked behind Louis' back, and feels himself slipping under faster, faster, faster. “What—oh, _fuck_ —what else?”

“I wanted to fuck you—”

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, Louis—fuck.”

“—at Nick’s party, with your lips as pink as bubblegum—”

“ _Louis_.” Harry’s breath grows frantic, his body arching upward to make hot, desperate contact with Louis' stomach, to feel friction on his aching cock.

“—when you told me you—wanted to lick peach rum from m-my collarbones— _Harry_ ,” Louis cries out, flattening his forearms on either side of Harry’s head to support himself, his thrusts growing faster and more erratic. 

Harry finds Louis' hands, and wiggles his own beneath them, tangling their fingers together. Their faces are so close that Harry drinks every grunt and moan that falls from Louis' lips as he works over him. Harry’s thighs begin to tremble around Louis' gasping frame. 

“Is it—h-how you imagined?”

Louis whines, leaving trails of sloppy kisses across Harry’s face. “Better,” he pants. “S-so much better. Look at you, all spread out for me.” He squeezes between them to wrap a hand around Harry’s cock, his lips never leaving Harry’s face. Harry moans into Louis' open mouth. “See?” Louis hums. “So good, so gorgeous. I wish you could see yourself right now.”

Louis' fingers fly over Harry’s cock, and Harry’s hips snap harder and jerkier, his breath catching on every whimper.

“Louis, fuck, I— _fuck_.” Harry’s entire lower body aches, and he clenches hard around Louis' thickness. He tries to find purchase with his legs wrapped around Louis, one hand intertwined with his, and he can’t think of enough ways to have Louis over and around and inside him. A loud smacking noise interrupts their shared ragged breaths and Louis' balls slap rhythmically against Harry’s arse. Heat waves rock through his body as all of him _throbs_ with need. “I’m gonna— _please_ , I’m gonna fucking—”

A high, throaty moan echoes from Louis' throat, his brow furrowed and shining with sweat as he focuses every effort on Harry.

“So—close—”

Louis' hand tightens just so around Harry’s cock, and the heat in his stomach erupts in a burst of light and flame and wicked, wicked passion. His vision is blasted with white stars and every muscle clenches around Louis and his hips twitch, out of his control. He breaks open with a loud cry and a splatter of come between their heaving bodies.

Louis rocks with him through it, kissing his forehead and caressing the side of his face, whimpering and gasping in Harry’s ear as his body tightens and releases around him. Moments later, as Harry is riding out his own aftershocks, a high-pitched moan tears from Louis' throat and his entire body shakes violently, his eyelids fluttering closed as he shoots deep and hot inside of Harry. 

Harry’s head falls back onto the duvet, and Louis pulls out slowly, tying the condom off and dropping it onto the floor. He collapses on top of Harry, his elbows bending below him, his biceps trembling with effort and pleasure. With Louis' head on Harry’s bare chest, their breaths come ragged and staggered between them, hearts thundering alongside one another. Little whimpers escape swollen and trembling lips, mingling together in the milky darkness. The sweat between their chests mingles, dripping off their skin and onto the bed, one combined scent of heat and passion and awe.

Louis traces shapes on Harry’s chest with his shaking hand. Compared to his rough thrusts minutes ago, Louis' gentle fingers feel cool as raindrops on Harry’s flushed skin. Harry focuses on the loops and the lines, trying to decipher what Louis is tracing in the sensitive skin below his collarbone.

“What are you drawing?” Harry whispers.

“Letters.”

“What do the letters spell?”

Louis props himself up by a palm on Harry’s chest, and presses two soft lips to Harry’s mouth. He nudges between Harry’s lips, parting them as if preparing to share a secret. Harry opens for him, and inhales every breath Louis releases between them to learn what Louis wants him to know.

“I...L...O...V...E…” Louis muses, tracing the corresponding letters on Harry’s skin.

Harry tosses his arms around Louis' neck, and Louis lowers his head to the empty space beside Harry’s. Louis' body stretches flat over Harry, covering him perfectly. 

“I love you,” Harry murmurs into Louis' dark and damp hair.

“I’m in love with you,” Harry hears whispered in his ear. 

Harry lightly pushes his fingers through Louis' hair, memorizing the way it feels beneath his fingertips, the way their heartbeats fall into perfect synchrony, the way every time Harry’s chest rises, Louis' falls.

Louis' body begins to tremble with giggles, and he buries his face in Harry’s neck to suppress the sound.

“What are you giggling about?”

“‘Let’s fuck like teenagers,’” Louis quotes, erupting into full-blown laughter.

“Heeeey,” Harry protests, rolling Louis off of him and onto the bed beside him. He props his head up on one elbow and furrows his brow at the naked and giggling Louis, wriggling on top of the duvet.

“Come here,” Louis says, pulling Harry down toward him until they’re both lying on their sides, facing one another, their noses nearly brushing. “I thought it was cute.”

“You thought it was _more_ than cute,” Harry argues. “You should have heard yourself moan when I said it.”

They’re both giggling when they lean in for another kiss, arms winding around one another’s waists, so they get mostly teeth and smiling lips. Somehow, it’s one of Harry’s favourite kisses so far. He feels dizzy with the sheer number of kisses they’ve shared already, and the fact that it’s all nothing compared to the kisses they’ll get in the future. 

_The future. Starting now._

“Think we did quite a bit better than teenagers, anyway,” Louis mumbles.

“Think so, too.”

Harry’s heartbeat has returned by normal now, as has his breathing, and now he and Louis are just puffing warm breaths between their mouths. “Still can’t believe I get to kiss you,” Harry marvels. 

“Can’t believe...I get...to love you,” Louis replies, voice sugary sweet and slow moving like maple syrup, and heavy with sleep.

 _We should shower_ , is what Harry means to say next, but sleep pulls him under before he can inform his lips. The late hours swing low and quiet, cradling them in billowing darkness, and in Louis' arms, Harry is calm, peaceful, worlds away from where he woke up this morning.

* * * * *

[Coffee Kiss - Shane Alexander](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SqdWceTRsDA)

Harry has woken up in a lot of hotels, in a lot of different cities. 

The thing about hotel rooms is that they’re all different, but the feeling Harry gets from a hotel morning is always the same. There are the rooms with dark mahogany floors and narrow floor-to-ceiling windows veiled by sheer curtains. In the morning, the sunlight leaks through the curtains, peaceful and slow, painting the room with a smooth golden glow.

There are the trendier hotel rooms, too. The ones with rounded walls made entirely of glass. Those mornings, the sun bursts through the window more than it leaks; the shadows on the floor stretch and slip across the floor before finally fading, surrendering to the morning.

It’s gorgeous, really, the way the sun’s morning dance is the same in every city. He usually wakes up naturally before the sunrise, and he waits in bed for the sun to kiss the crisp white of the hotel linens and set the room ablaze.

But never has Harry loved hotel morning sunlight as much as he loves it this morning, Louis beside him, dusty shadows pooling in his collarbones, and the rise and fall of his breath.

Harry’s lies on his back, his head surrounded by pillows. His hair is tied up in a loose bun on top of his head, and a few curls escape the hair tie to drape themselves over his forehead. Louis lies beside him, his leg slotted between Harry’s thighs. His hand is curled in a loose fist on Harry’s chest, palm up, and it rises along with Harry’s chest as he inhales deeply.

Louis' mouth hangs open slightly, warm puffs of air tickling the skin of Harry’s chest with every sleepy exhalation. Harry watches him sleep for what feels like hours, smiling every time Louis whimpers softly in his sleep or twitches as if in a dream. At one point, Louis shifts like he might be waking up, squinting his eyes tight and inhaling sharply through his nose. Harry prepares to wish him good morning, to kiss the remnants of sleep from his sweet lips, but then Louis flattens his palm on Harry’s torso, sliding it across to snake his arm around Harry’s waist and pull him closer, searching out warmth and contact—and Harry may or may not feel a prickle of tears at the corners of his eyes. The wonder of it all, of Louis holding him tight, is splendidly overwhelming. 

Louis hums happily, his eyes fluttering behind his lids in a dream. Harry traces the curves of Louis' back with his fingertips and experiences his dream awake.

Finally, there’s a long, slow inhale, and Louis peels his cheek from Harry’s chest to look up at him. His eyes are slow to open, sticky sweet and heavy with sleep. 

“Mmm,” Louis groans softly. “‘S bright in here.”

Harry lifts a hand to push Louis' hair away from his forehead, grinning at him. “I know.” He leans forward, presses a single kiss to Louis' hairline, and mumbles against his skin, “Morning, sunshine.”

Louis chuckles softly, lowering his face to Harry’s chest. His eyelashes flutter against Harry’s skin. 

“I love this,” Harry whispers.

Louis lifts his head again, gazing at Harry. “Love what?”

“This. Bed. With you.”

Louis pulls his leg out from between Harry's, lifting it up in one fluid motion to straddle him, flattening their torsos together. One hand reaches for Harry's, lacing their fingers together. The other traces the curve of Harry's left eyebrow. “Yeah? Me too.”

“Hoped you'd still want me in the morning,” Harry teases, pulling Louis down into a chaste kiss.

Harry feels Louis smile as he deepens the kiss. Their sour morning breath is only an afterthought, a secondary matter to the warmth between them.

“I've wanted you for so long,” Louis whispers against Harry's lips. “If anything, having you only has me wanting you more.”

Harry hums, and draws his hands down Louis' bare back, tracing circles on the smooth tanned skin. “It's funny, how many mornings we've spent together, but this feels completely new.”

“You're right,” Louis agrees with a smirk. “'M used to your morning breath by now, thank god.”

“Hey,” Harry giggles, pushing Louis off of him and sending him tumbling onto the mattress. “You don't exactly smell like roses.”

Louis shakes with laughter, pulling the duvet over his face.

“Louis.”

“What?” Louis answers, his voice muffled by the fabric.

“Remember when I met Ed back in London, at Nick's party?”

Louis pushes the duvet back to peer at Harry. “Yes?”

“Well.” Harry turns over on the mattress to lean on both elbows. “He was right about something.”

Louis narrows his eyes. He, too, flips over onto his stomach and leans on his forearms, so they're resting shoulder to shoulder. “What's that?”

“You...Louis Tomlinson...” Harry lifts a hand to tap the very tip of Louis' nose with one finger. “...talk. In your sleep.”

Louis' eyes bulge. “I don't.”

“You do,” Harry giggles. 

“Oh my god,” Louis groans. He buries his face in the mountain of white fluffy pillows and mumbles something Harry can't make out. 

“What did you say?”

“I said,” Louis sighs, turning his face in the pillows. “What did I talk about?”

“Oh, I don't know,” Harry shrugs his shoulders. “I think you said something about...hm. What were your exact words? Something like, ‘Harry, I'd like to take a bite of your sweet arse like an apple.’ I'm paraphrasing, of course.” 

Louis' eyes shoot wide open. “I did not.”

“You did. You're quite the romantic when you're in a sleep state.”

“Oh my god.” Louis scrambles up into a seated position, tucking his legs beneath him. “Oh my _god_.”

“Louis.” Harry giggles. He pushes himself up, too, and places a palm on Louis' thigh. “I'm kidding. You mumbled a lot, but nothing I could make out.”

“You're so stupid,” Louis groans, but he reaches for Harry with a hand behind his neck, coaxes his lips open with his tongue. 

They disappear into one another, pulled under the surface in a tangle of limbs and searching mouths. Once Harry has had enough that he can bear to pry himself out of Louis' arms, he climbs out of bed and steps into a pair of joggers that hang low on his hips. He pads into the en suite and splashes cool water onto his face. Louis follows close behind, his hair flattened to the side of his face that was pressed to Harry's chest all night. While Harry brushes his teeth, Louis wraps both arms around his waist and clings to him from behind. Louis doesn't have to say a word, but Harry knows. It's a message, more to himself than to Harry. A message that this is real, every moment, and that Harry won't slip away. 

Louis insists on watching from the bed as Harry makes the coffee, whining the whole time about the fact that Harry is no longer naked. It's been two weeks since Harry made two cups of coffee.

He pours cream into one, and milk into the other. They sip it shoulder to shoulder on the bed in the patches of sunlight that ripple on the wrinkles of the duvet, and Harry coaxes warmth from the cup with two hands wrapped around it. Coffee for two always did taste better than coffee for one.

“Can I ask you a question?” Louis asks at one point, his breath a strange combination of clean peppermint and sweet coffee.

“Of course,” Harry replies.

“Two weeks ago, when I kissed you, I thought I'd freaked you out. I thought that was why you avoided me for so long, why you flew separately all of the sudden.” Louis pauses, takes another sip of coffee, furrows his brow slightly. “But if you felt the same way I did, that couldn't have been why. So, I don't know. What was it?”

“Well,” Harry sighs. “I didn't think the kiss meant anything to you. I thought it was just, like, this emotional response, sort of.” 

Louis places a hand on Harry's knee and squeezes ever so slightly. 

“And like, obviously it wasn't just a kiss to me, and that was the problem, I thought,” Harry explains. “The closer we were getting, the more difficult it was to act like it was all platonic for me. So I guess, like, I thought my only option was to keep us from getting too close.”

“What did you think would happen if we got too close and you couldn't hide it anymore?”

“Well, I don't know,” Harry admits. “I didn't really think through it that far. I guess I thought you'd be uncomfortable.”

Louis smiles and turns his palm upward in invitation. Harry slides his hand into it, and squeezes. 

“At least we were both stupid,” Louis says. “Equally.”

Harry nods. “We got there.”

Louis lifts their hands, and kisses the back of Harry's. “We did.”

They order room service for breakfast and eat it sitting cross-legged on the floor. Instead of imagining kissing Louis between bites of toast, Harry actually does it. And instead of wishing for the boy with the sun-kissed skin and the crinkles around his eyes to be in love with him, Harry knows. He is.

* * * * *

When Harry stumbles into the dressing room, bags falling off his shoulders and a clump of hair caught in his mouth, Liam is already there, clothing racks set up and all. _Bless that man,_ Harry thinks, and certainly not for the first time.

“Hey,” Harry pants. “Sorry I'm so late.”

Liam chuckles, tossing a balled up pair of socks between his hands. He sits on the leather sofa, one leg crossed over the other. “Twenty minutes, Hazza. I had to set up by myself.”

Images of the hotel room shower flash across Harry's brain. Harry thrusting his hips forward, fucking into Louis' mouth. The splatter of come on Louis' face, and the warm water that mingles with it to disappear down the drain. The taste of himself on Louis' hungry tongue.

“Yeah, uh, sorry,” Harry mumbles. “Slept through my alarm.” He ignores Liam's quizzical stare and steps over his bags to stand in front of the shirt rack, shuffling through the items. “Thoughts for tonight's wardrobe?”

“Uh, right, I was— _Louis_?”

Louis steps through the door to the dressing room moments after Harry does. He holds up an identification card on a black lanyard. “You forgot to get your tag, Harry.” He turns his gaze to Liam, offers a bright smile. “Hey, Liam. Alright?”

“Yeah, good,” Liam nods. He glances from Louis, to Harry, and back again, confusion written in the wrinkles of his forehead. “You guys come together?”

Louis snorts, pressing three fingers to his lips as if trying to suppress a laugh. Harry rolls his eyes and holds his hand out for the ID card, which Louis tosses to him.

“Good catch,” Louis grins.

“Are you two, like...” Liam uncrosses his legs, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “...good now?”

“You wanna know, Liam,” Harry declares, sinking down next to Liam on the couch and draping an arm around his shoulders, “what I think is good?”

Liam narrows his eyes, swiveling his head to lean back from Harry. “Sure?”

“You and Sophia. You're a match made in heaven, you know that?” With his other hand, Harry claps the centre of Liam's chest. “You tell her you love her yet?”

“Yes, what the fuck are you talking—”

“He's right,” Louis chimes in. He plops down on Liam's other side, and Liam jumps back, bumping into Harry. “If you love her, you should tell her.”

“I just said I—”

“You should call her,” Harry suggests.

“Right. Give her a good ring,” Louis adds, and Harry laughs a loud and barking laugh at that.

“A good—what is going on?” Liam's voice is louder now.

“I just love _love_ ,” Harry answers simply. He pushes up from the sofa and starts toward the clothing rack stocked with jackets.

Liam turns to Louis, pointing a thumb over his shoulder at Harry. “He just watch Notting Hill? That shit makes him weird.”

Louis giggles, slapping his knee with the heel of his palm. “Something like that.”

“Hey, you two,” Harry calls. He holds the navy jacket with the thick white stripe up to his torso, the one from the first photoshoot Harry ever did with Louis. “‘S it too hot to wear this jacket tonight?”

Liam reaches into his pocket, searching for his phone. “Let me check the weather. It's pretty warm today but it might cool down later on.”

“I'll check the weather,” Harry says. “Use your phone to call your bloody girlfriend.”

Liam heaves an exasperated sigh. “Okay, listen. We just talked last night. Things are great with us, we're not having problems, if that's what you're worried about.”

“Mate, do you love her or not?” Louis asks, raising his eyebrows and sweeping an arm toward the door.

Liam shoves off of the couch, tapping out a phone number on his screen and muttering something that sounds suspiciously like “You two drive me fucking nuts.”

When he disappears through the door, giving one last eye roll before pulling it closed behind him, Harry makes searing eye contact with Louis. He's still holding the jacket to his torso.

“Come here,” he whispers, and Louis is off the sofa and across the room before the last syllable drops from his mouth. 

“My favourite jacket,” Louis murmurs.

“Your favourite jacket.”

Louis' lips stumble into Harry's, their lips sliding together, Louis' teeth grazing Harry's bottom lip. Both of Louis' hands race up Harry's back and into his curls, and the jacket is caught between them as their bodies melt into one.

* * * * *

“It’s just frustrating. I helped write the bloody thing. You’d think I’d remember the words to my own song.”

Louis steps into the lift, hands shoved in his pockets. Harry follows behind him, pressing a hand to his lower back and a soft kiss to his wrinkled forehead. 

“There are three verses, all with different lyrics,” Harry says. “It’s okay to mix them up sometimes.”

The doors close automatically behind them, and Louis reaches around Harry to push the button for the top floor. “It’s really not,” he protests. “It’s unprofessional and embarrassing.”

“I think,” Harry replies, tilting Louis' face up with two fingers under his chin, “it’s human. That’s what I think.” 

Louis rolls his eyes, but a smile softens the angles of his face, and he exhales a tiny laugh. “Thank you.”

“Of course.” Harry presses a brief kiss to Louis' pouting lips. “I think you did great tonight, for what it’s worth. I can’t blame you if you might have been a little…” He drags his teeth once over his bottom lip. “Distracted.”

With a ding, the doors slide open and an elderly woman steps into the lift. Harry jolts back from Louis and leans his back against the wall of the lift, sniffing loudly and trying to suppress a smirk. The woman raises her eyebrows.

They ride in silence for a few more floors. Harry digs his phone from his pocket, and after a few swipes, pulls up the Tumblr app on the screen. A video of Louis tossing water on a fan in the crowd is first on his dashboard, and he watches it with the volume muted, smiling to himself at the goofy grin plastered to Louis' face. His thumb swipes again. 

Below the video, there’s a picture of Harry. His eyes bulge, and he lifts his phone closer to his face. “What the—”

“Hmm?” Louis asks, leaning in closer to glance at Harry’s phone over his shoulder. “What’s that?”

“It’s…” Harry scrolls down, reads the caption. It’s something about _Louis’ new stylist_ and _used to work for Niall Horan_ and _since November I’m guessing_. It’s tagged ‘CSI fandom,’ followed by a few more tags that cause heat to bloom in his cheeks. “Yeah, nothing, just a post.”

The doors open with another ding, and Harry steps out of the lift and into the hall. He presses his thumb to the screen again, scrolling past his picture, but the next post is also about him. This one has a few pictures of him with Niall and Liam, and a lovely drunk selfie he’d blissfully forgotten about until now.

“That looks like you,” Louis says, reaching for Harry’s phone. “Let me see that.” He swipes up on the screen, squinting his eyes to read the small print. “Oh my god babe, they found you,” he giggles.

“What do you mean _found_ me?”

Louis claps his free hand over his mouth momentarily, then pushes it through his hair. “Did you see the tags on this? ‘Whoever the fuck Harry Styles is, I’m in love with him. He’s so gorgeous this is blowing my mind,’” he reads.

“Oh my—”

“Wait!” Louis interrupts. “It gets better. ‘Louis chills with this pretty peach backstage every day? Okay, but picture them side by side, what a fucking blessing.’” 

Harry lunges for his phone. “Give me that.”

Louis giggles again, pulling the phone just out of reach of Harry’s groping hands. “Don’t be embarrassed, they love you.”

“How did they find out all of that about me?” 

“I don’t know, love,” Louis shrugs. He places the phone back in Harry’s palm, concern etched in his eyes. “Are you okay with that? If you’re not comfortable—”

“No, no, it’s fine,” Harry reassures him. “I just...how in the world did they…”

Louis chuckles. “I wish I knew sometimes. Like I’ve said before, they’re observant.” He digs his room key out of his pocket and slides it through the card reader on the door to his hotel room, then pushes the door open with his hip. “I was surprised it took them this long, if I’m honest. Wonder what it was that tipped them off. Check the blog that posted that one picture of you, the selfie. She’s quite good.”

Harry lowers himself onto the end of the bed, then lies backward, holding his phone above his face to scroll back on the blog Louis mentioned. “Oh my god, there are so many posts about me.”

“They’re a sneaky bunch,” Louis mumbles, falling on the bed beside Harry. He turns his head, nudging Harry’s hair with his nose. “They’ve found out a thousand things about me before. There are the most _embarrassing_ pictures of me when I was eleven circulating Tumblr.” He leans in to press his lips to Harry’s temple. “I’m not the least bit surprised they’ve found my boyfriend.”

Louis must feel Harry’s body stiffen beneath his fingertips, because he’s suddenly tripping all over his words, scrambling to fill the empty space with sounds that will cover the last two syllables.

“I mean—like, not that you—well. Sorry, I didn’t—I’m just saying I’m not surprised that they—”

“Louis.”

“Hmm?”

Harry places his phone between them on the mattress, then turns onto his side to face Louis. His head is propped up with one elbow. “It’s okay. You don’t have to apologise.”

“No? Okay, good.” Louis places a palm to Harry’s chest. “I don’t want to...you know.”

Harry places his own hand over Louis’ on his chest. “Should we talk about it?”

Louis leans in, pressing his lips to Harry’s forehead. He blows a warm, slow breath from his nose into Harry’s hair. “I don’t want to pressure you,” he murmurs against Harry’s skin.

“You’re not pressuring me,” Harry replies. “I want to talk about it.”

Louis draws back, smoothing the pad of his thumb over Harry’s left eyebrow, his own eyebrows twitching slightly. “Okay.”

“Can you tell me,” Harry begins, reaching for Louis’ arm and pulling it over his waist, snuggling in closer to him, “what you’re thinking?”

Louis rubs his thumb in circles in the dip of Harry’s waist. “I’m thinking...that I’m pretty patient, when I want to be. For the things that matter.”

“Be honest with me.”

“That was honest. I know what happened with your last boyfriend, and I understand if you have hesitations about, you know, being in a relationship again. And I can wait until you’re ready.”

Harry furrows his eyebrows, traces the outline Louis’ chin with his trembling fingertips. “That doesn’t feel right to me.”

“Why not?”

Harry’s eyes fall closed, his eyes flickering feverishly back and forth beneath his lids. A memory builds like a wave and then breaks over his consciousness. James Corden. The day Louis realised he loved Harry.

_I try not to do too much wanting, Harry. It makes the now an easier place to be._

“What do you _want_ , Louis?” Harry whispers. 

“I want you, that’s all.”

“As your boyfriend?”

Louis’ hand stills on Harry’s waist. “Yes, as my boyfriend. But not out of obligation. I want you to be my boyfriend only because you feel free to choose that.”

“Free?” Harry whispers.

Fingers sweep his hair off of his forehead, and blue whirlpool eyes capture his. “Perfectly free,” comes the reply.

“I do feel that way.” As Harry speaks, he studies every line and curve of Louis’s face, the three freckles sprinkled on his lower left cheek near his mouth, the way his left eye squints a bit smaller then the right when he smiles. “And I love you. Didn’t take me long to learn that I probably always will.” Louis smiles at that, and Harry’s thumb slips over the crinkles by his eyes. “A part of me worries too much, though.”

“What worries you most?”

“All the what-ifs. You know? Things don’t always go perfectly, I know, but…”

Louis removes his hand from Harry’s waist and takes Harry’s hand in his. He places their joined hands between them on the mattress. “You want to know what a really wise person told me once?”

“What?”

“They told me, ‘Don’t read for plot, read for moments.’”

Harry shifts on the mattress, giving Louis’ hand a squeeze.

“You worry about the plot, you lose the moments,” Louis continues. “You’re my moment. Always have been, since I met you. If I’d worried too much about the bigger plot of my life, I would never have let you in to change it all around. For the better.” Louis rubs his thumb over the back of Harry’s hand. “My life’s a much better story with you than without.”

Harry leans his body forward to press his face into Louis’ chest. He inhales deeply, breathing in his spicy scent. “Where did you come from?” he mumbles into the fabric of Louis’ shirt. “You’re too good to be true.”

Louis presses a kiss to the top of Harry’s head. “I’m true, baby.”

“Okay.” Harry lifts his head and places both hands on either side of Louis’ face. “Listen.”

“I’m listening,” Louis giggles.

“I will agree under one condition.”

Louis grins. “Anything.”

Harry swings his leg over Louis’ waist, flipping on top of him and lowering himself until their chests are pressed flat together. “If I let you call me your boyfriend…”

Louis flings both arms around Harry’s neck, grinning as he pulls him down and closer to himself. “Still listening.”

“You let me take you on a proper date.”

“Oooh,” Louis hums, waggling his eyebrows. “Trying to wine and dine me, are you?”

“Consider it a trial basis.”

Louis giggles beneath Harry, then draws him into a long kiss. He smiles into it, their lips sliding clumsily together. When Louis pulls back to whisper his response, his eyes are still closed, but a smile stretches his pink lips. “Yes.”

Harry hums contentedly as he pushes Louis’ lips open again, and Louis softens beneath him. With every soft whimper and every gentle breath, the word _boyfriend_ vibrates between them.

 _Mine_.

The whisper of lips is the lilting melody of a love song, the gentle touches on Harry’s back a poem Louis writes on Harry’s skin with his fingers. The thing about poems is that they don’t always make sense—and neither does life—but they’re both somehow all the more beautiful for it. 

As silver moonlight breaks on their skin, Louis curls around Harry like a comma and kisses him like an exclamation point.

* * * * *

That weekend, they fly out of Phoenix and into Las Vegas. When they've unpacked and settled into their hotel rooms, and Harry has tucked his suitcase next to Louis' in Louis' suite, Louis heads off to watch the final cut of his new music video and Harry and Liam set out in search of Vegas' best hole in the wall pizza joint.

It's a hazy orange evening that settles over the streets, the darkness staved off by the street lights that buzz overhead. When they stumble across a narrow brick building set back from the street by a set of stairs, they know they've found their place. 

A red and green neon sign reads 'Cugino's Pizzeria' above the doorway, but only the first letter is illuminated. When they step inside, the smell of grease and melted cheese drifts pleasantly through the smoky air, circulated by a single ceiling fan that spins lazily on the yellowed ceiling. 

At the counter, a burly man with a close-cropped crew cut and a neck tattoo offers a welcoming grunt and gestures to the empty dining room. Harry and Liam help themselves to a corner booth, and slide into their seats, unfolding a set of menus with handwritten prices. 

“Feels so authentic,” Liam muses, turning his head as he scans his menu.

It's rare that they get to enjoy the local food of each city they touch down in, and it's something Harry regrets about the fast-paced lifestyle of touring. When he does have the chance to venture outside the hotel and concert venues, it's the tiny corner shops with stuffy dining rooms and secret family recipes that he seeks out.

“I read about this place online last time we were in Vegas with Niall,” Harry explains. “Their gnocchi is apparently legendary.”

Liam pulls a sour face. “What is gnocchi?”

Harry holds up two fingers to estimate the size of a single piece. “They're like these little dough dumplings made of semolina, usually. It's typically served with a meat sauce.”

“What's...semolina?”

“You know what?” Harry snaps his menu closed, placing both elbows on the table. “Let's just do pizza, yeah? Pepperoni?”

Liam grins. “Yeah, great. Now we're speaking a language I can understand.”

They decide on a large pizza, double cheese with pepperoni, and while they wait, Liam leans back in the booth, legs crossed under the table. 

“So Louis' music video. Have you seen it yet?”

Harry shakes his head. “No, not yet. They just finished it. That's what he's doing now, actually.”

“Ah.” Liam nods, dragging a finger across the metal rim of the table. “I liked what you did with his wardrobe in it. The way you used colour to distinguish him from the dark night-time background, very clever.”

“Thanks, yeah. The blue colour palette was perfect, I think.”

“When are they officially releasing it, do you know?”

“Uh, yeah,” Harry nods. “This week, actually. At the VMAs.”

“Mmm.” Liam leans forward across the table. “Is he excited?”

Harry swallows, shuffles his feet under the table. “Yeah. He is.”

“So you two are talking again?”

Harry's stomach drops, and he fumbles for words. This was the plan. To tell Liam tonight about everything that had changed. It was the whole reason Harry had asked Liam to have dinner with him. So why is he freezing up now?

“Yeah, we're talking,” Harry shrugs. 

Liam crosses both arms over his chest. “Harry, before dinner, I stopped by your hotel room, thinking we'd be meeting there.”

Oh, god. His very _empty_ hotel room.

“There was nothing in it,” Liam explains. “So. Your stuff has to be somewhere, does it not?”

Harry groans, pressing the heels of both palms into his eyes. Liam stares expectantly and Harry squirms under the pressure of it. 

Finally, he sighs. “Okay. Fine. _Fine_.” He drops his hands into his lap. “This is what I wanted to talk about tonight. My stuff is in Louis' room.”

One of Liam's hands is lowered to the table, fingers drumming on the smooth surface. A smirk tugs at the left side of his mouth. “Go on.”

Harry groans and drops his forehead to the table with a soft this. “Don't you dare.”

“Don't dare what?”

“Smile like that,” Harry mumbles, his voice a tinny echo off the surface of the table. “Like you were right all along.”

“I _was_ right all—”

“Shut up.”

Liam chuckles. “How long has it been?”

Harry sighs, straightening in his seat. He shakes out his hair with both hands, then pushes it back from his face. “A few days.”

Liam reaches across the table to give Harry's shoulder a squeeze. “I'm really happy to hear that, mate.”

“Sorry I didn't say anything. I felt stupid. It's embarrassing, how clueless I was.”

“Don't be embarrassed,” Liam reassures him. “Took way too bloody long, but...” he shrugs. “I've never seen you happy like this before.”

Heat floods Harry's cheeks, and he ducks his head. He's never felt happy like this before, either. When he browses room service menus and pizza menus and coffee menus, he guesses what Louis would order. When he climbs into bed, he already curls up on one side to leave just enough room for Louis, and waits for the weight of an arm around his waist. Forgets how he ever slept without it.

“Can't believe he managed to win the elusive, mysterious Harry Styles,” Liam teases, resting his chin in his palm. “Was starting to think it couldn't be done.”

Harry studies his hands in his lap, then smiles, meets Liam's gaze. “Me too. There's just something different, though. I can't explain it.”

“You don't have to,” Liam replies. “I've seen it since the very beginning.”

“You have?”

“What, you really think every time I left the dressing room for hours at a time, all I did was eat biscuits in the break room?” Liam laughs. “Shit, no way. Thank _me_ for all your bonding time, mate.”

Harry groans, his eyes squeezing shut. “Was I really the only oblivious one?”

“No,” Liam deadpans. “You both were equally oblivious.” He lifts a finger to point at Harry. “Have you ever seen the heart eyes emoji?”

Harry rolls his eyes, and Liam laughs loudly, his eyes disappearing between layers of wrinkles.

“No, really,” Liam continues, swallowing the last few giggles. “He's gone for you, Harry. Just completely off his arse.”

Harry rubs the back of his neck with one sweaty palm, rolling his head side to side. He shoots a glance back over his shoulder at the front counter. “Where's the pizza? I need something greasy to save me from this embarrassment.”

Liam chuckles. “I don't mean to embarrass you, mate. It's just that I've known you for so long and never had this opportunity before. It's like the payback I've been praying for for me and Soph.”

“You want to talk payback?” Harry folds both hands in a solemn pose on the table, one eyebrow quirked. “That's brave, coming from someone who is about to have a lot of two on one time with a new couple.”

Liam's eyes widen to the size of golf balls. “Oh god. No.”

Harry snorts. “Sorry, mate.”

When the pizza arrives, it's hot and glistening with a layer of orange grease, and it's right on time. It just feels so normal that it nearly overwhelms him, a pizza between them and stories of a new boyfriend. It's the best pizza Harry thinks he has ever eaten.

* * * * *

Harry knocks once, twice, three times, his knuckles tapping an urgent rhythm on the smooth painted wood of the door to Louis' suite. He hears movement from the other side of the door, and he reaches down, adjusting his black blazer on his waist. He slips a shiny black button through one of the middle holes, smoothing the fabric on either side, then unbuttons it again. Rolls his shoulders. Flips his part to one side, then back again.

The door clicks, and is pulled open to reveal a grinning Louis on the other side. Behind him, his suite is bathed in the wispy early evening glow of the sunset, and it catches on Louis’ melted caramel skin. A black and white striped jumper hangs low off his shoulders, the tips of his chest tattoo emerging above the neckline, shadows carving out the dip of his collarbones.

“Are you wearing—”

Louis grins, flattening a hand on his chest and glancing down at the jumper. “Yeah, this is it. This is the one you gave me.”

“Babe.” Harry places a palm to Louis’ jaw, rubbing his thumb gently across his cheek. “I didn’t even know you’d packed that one.”

“Well, I was waiting for the right time to wear it, and tonight felt like it.” Louis covers Harry’s hand with his own and smiles a smile that sparkles like stars in his glassy sea-blue eyes. “You look…” Louis lowers his eyes to Harry’s shoes, dragging them up slowly until they reach the curls that sweep across Harry’s forehead. “Wow,” he exhales. 

Harry swipes his hand over his blazer again, brushing non-existent bits of dust from the black fabric. “Thanks,” he mumbles, shifting his weight between his feet.

“I’m—shit,” Louis swears, glancing down at his own outfit. “Am I underdressed? I can change. Or, I don’t know.”

“You’re perfect,” Harry assures him, dropping a kiss to his forehead, lingering for a moment to breathe in his clean, sweet scent. 

Two hands find their way to either side of Harry’s waist. “Can I have a hint where we’re going?” Louis murmurs, his voice taking on a darker quality. “Or perhaps know how long we have to get there? Because…” He smooths both hands behind Harry’s back, nudging them dangerously close to the curve of Harry’s arse. “This suit is the second best thing I’ve ever seen you in, and it’s making me a bit…” He places a wet kiss on the corner of Harry’s mouth, then breathes out, hot and fast. “Impatient.”

Harry giggles, pushing Louis back gently with a palm to his chest. “Second best? What’s first?”

“Your…” Louis smiles, his eyes darting upward. “Birthday suit?”

“Whoa, hey, there,” Harry chuckles, straightening his posture. “This is a first date.”

Louis sighs, placing both hands on his hips. “First date my _arse_ , don’t act like you don’t put out,” he teases.

Harry takes Louis’ chin in his hand. “Hey,” he hums. “I should have done this forever ago, so.” He gives Louis a quick kiss, so light it feels like a warm breath on his lips. “Let me do this right.”

Louis smiles softly, gazing up at Harry through fanned eyelashes. “Okay.”

“Okay.” Harry steps backward and into the hall again, reaching for the door handle to pull it closed again. “Ready?”

“Ready,” Louis nods, and Harry closes the door with a click. Counts to five. Knocks again.

Louis throws open the door. “Oh, Harry!” he cries. “What are you doing here? Don’t you look so handsome.”

Harry grins, fingering the button on his blazer. “Thank you. You look lovely as well. Is that the jumper I gave you?”

“What, this old thing?” Louis waves a hand in front of him. “Thrift store.”

Harry barks out a laugh, and Louis’ eyes glisten with humour, too.

“What brings you to my room at this fine dinner hour at which, unusually enough for me, I have no dinner plans?” Louis asks, gesturing dramatically with his arms. 

“Could I come in?”

“Certainly,” Louis replies, stepping back to allow Harry to enter, pushing the door closed behind them.

“Please,” Harry begins, gesturing to an upholstered seat that frames the foot of the bed. “Have a seat.”

Louis does, and he crosses his legs, tossing a dainty hand across his knee. 

“Louis Tomlinson, I like you. I like you very much.” Harry steps slowly across the carpet, closer to Louis, who is wrestling a goofy smile from his face. “I’ve liked you since I met you, if I’m honest. I liked you in the bar that first night we ever knew one another, the night you listened to me talk about myself for hours and actually enjoyed it.” Louis’ smile is softer now, nostalgic. “I like your confidence. I like your sense of humour. I like the way you wear Givenchy like no one I’ve ever seen. I like the way you always contradict yourself and the way you always surprise me, the way you’re like ten people rolled into one ridiculously sexy body.” 

Louis leans back on the seat, preening at Harry’s compliment. Harry takes another step closer. “I like how brave you are, too, and how loyal. I like that you never give up. But most of all,” Harry sinks into a squatting position beside Louis, placing one hand on his knee, gazing up at him. “I like the person I’ve become since I met you. I like who I am with you, Louis. It’s like...all my life, I was this little rosebud.” Louis giggles, and Harry knew when he was planning his speech this morning that he would like that comparison. “I’m serious. It’s like I was this little rosebud, and I needed a very special kind of sunlight to allow me to bloom. And then...I met you. And now I’m this big red beautiful rose. The same thing I’ve always been, but just the most developed version.”

Harry lifts his free hand, places it on Louis’ left cheek. “So,” he murmurs. “That said, I was wondering. Would you care to join me for dinner this evening?” He pulls Louis down to him, and leans into a slow, syrupy sweet kiss. “I’d like to get to know you better.”

Louis smiles, running a hand over Harry’s hair to the back of his head. “I would be honored,” he whispers.

They sit there grinning at one another, and outside, the sky turns a furious burning red.

 _I love you_ , Louis mouths, and Harry leans in to kiss him before he can finish, catching the confession between his lips.

“Well, what are we waiting for, then?” Louis says when Harry leans back. “‘M starved.”

They leave the hotel room hand in hand, and on the lift, Harry claps in excitement when he realises how perfectly Louis’ black and white jumper coordinates with his own black blazer and white ruffled shirt.

[Like a Star - Corinne Bailey Rae](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-jDR8cnfrM8)

At [the restaurant](http://www.palms.com/fine-dining/alize), they are escorted to their seats by a polite waitress who excitedly swats the arm of the waiter beside her when she sees Louis Tomlinson walk in. Biting her lip in nervous excitement, she graciously takes their wine order, and leaves them to gaze in awe around the dining room. The walls are slanted inward, made entirely of glass. Through the windows, Vegas stretches out below them in every direction, a carpet of twinkling lights sprinkled over a thick carpet of black. High above the red and gold-speckled maze of cars and street lights, Harry feels so tiny and the city so expansive that it tightens his chest. 

As Louis flips through his menu, he absently reaches one hand across the table to take hold of Harry’s, and Harry is quite certain he doesn’t need wine to make his insides feel warm and bubbly and his head swim. His boy does that perfectly himself, smiling to himself across the table, his eyelashes throwing shadows across his cheeks as he scans the menu below him.

When the waitress approaches to take their dinner selections, Louis first asks her name before making his requests. Harry orders for Louis, and Louis for Harry, per Harry’s request. Louis, with his narrow list of preferences and his stubbornness, could stand to branch out, after all, even though he had turned his nose up when Harry said so. 

They sip wine and talk about songs that make them feel like they could become the sky. Louis says he’d have to pick [“Lake Michigan”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4nOa1G-uB2A) by Rogue Wave and although he doesn’t know if it makes him feel like he could become the sky, it’s the song that gave him the courage to talk to Harry in Phoenix and he says he thinks that’s probably the same thing. The lamp on the centre of the table washes Louis’ face with sweet, gentle light and when he tips his glass back on his lip to take a sip of wine, Harry thinks that the way drops of red liquid look on Louis’ top lip when he flicks his tongue out to swipe them into his mouth is probably something like what watching a miracle might feel like.

When their food arrives, Louis mumbles through mouthfuls that it’s the most delicious thing he’s ever tasted, and Harry doesn’t even get the urge to say ‘I told you so.’ 

When the waitress returns after their meal to collect the cheque, she nearly loses her balance when she sees the two hundred dollar tip and personal note Louis leaves her, and Harry would have reached out to steady her if he himself hadn’t also felt dizzy from the selflessness of it.

When they reach the exit and Harry moves to pull his hand out of Louis’ in case there are paps waiting outside, Louis holds on tighter. And when they slide into the backseat of their waiting car and Louis kisses him hard against the cool glass of the window, he tastes like red wine and like being everywhere all at once.

* * * * *

**July**

Harry’s thought it once, he’s thought it a thousand times: Louis is an enigma. And he thinks it again on this lazy LA afternoon, when he wakes Louis up with a peppering of kisses from where he’d fallen asleep in Harry’s lap as Harry scanned the latest issue of Vogue. He’s yawning and squinty-eyed, but in less than twenty minutes, he’s red-carpet ready in his St. Laurent red velvet bomber jacket and dark grey tweed trousers. He’s nearly the same height as Harry in his Valentino studded monk straps.

Of course, it helped that he was already naked when he woke up to get dressed. But not by much. Clothing is hardly an obstacle to Louis, who can pull himself out of any outfit in seconds flat, a skill for which Harry is both shocked and grateful. The outfit they’d selected, which now molds to the curves of Louis’ body, is tempting Harry to put his own rapid undressing skills to the test.

But it’s nearly five, and red carpet arrivals begin at six. A time and a place.

With a famous boyfriend, delayment of gratification is a sad reality, which, speaking of...well. Harry has never tried edging before, but fuck if he doesn’t like the imagery that evokes.

“What do you think?” Louis asks, lifting his arms from his sides to do a full turn.

Harry lowers his feet to the floor, bouncing off the bed. “You look fucking incredible.” He walks a circle around Louis, trailing one fingertip around his torso as he does. “God, you have the most amazing legs.”

Louis giggles, popping one hip. “My arse does look pretty amazing in these trousers.”

“Mmmm, yeah it does,” Harry murmurs, lowering his face to the curve of Louis’ neck.

“‘M glad you think so.”

“Everyone who sees you on the carpet is going to want you.” Harry leans back, walking two fingers up from Louis’s stomach to his chest. “Wish I could come.”

That was the shitty thing about the VMAs; artists don’t get their own individual dressing rooms, so they got ready elsewhere and made their grand entrance with all the finishing touches already applied. For Harry, that means he’s not needed at the venue so he’s stuck watching the show live on television along with the rest of the country. It means beers and room service in Liam’s hotel room, really.

“Tell you what,” Louis grins. “I’ll make you a promise.”

“A promise?” Harry hums. He kisses slowly up the column of Louis’ neck. “God, you smell delicious. Is that my shampoo?”

“Guilty,” Louis giggles. “When I shake my head like this,” he explains, shaking his head quickly from side to side, “I can smell you.”

“What do I smell like?”

“Aftershave. Leather. Coconut. And…” he pauses, thinking. “Roses.”

Harry’s hands slide up Louis’ arms, the velvet soft under his palms. “That’s quite a combination.”

“A sexy combination, yeah,” Louis replies, pushing one hand through the hair that curls at the back of Harry’s neck. “My promise is that when I come back later tonight, all these clothes you put on me?” Louis gestures down his body with his other hand. “You can take them right back off. Immediately.”

“Mmm, kiss me,” Harry hums.

Louis gathers Harry’s face with both hands, kissing his lips, then urging them open with a gentle push of his tongue, and then keeps kissing him. Kisses him like the taste grows sweeter by the second.

After a little lifetime, Harry nuzzles his face into Louis’ chest and sighs. “You’d better go.”

A beat passes, and Louis hugs Harry even tighter into his torso. “I’d better.”

Harry steps back and hurries to the bedside table, yanking the drawer open and fumbling through its contents. 

“What are you looking for?” Louis asks.

He spots the small yellow tube he was searching for, and snatches it up. “Your lip balm. You always lick your lips when you get nervous, so keep that with you. Use it whenever you need it. And, um...fuck.” He rustles around in the drawer for another few seconds. “ _Oh_ , and chewing gum. You talk to all kinds of people at award shows, so that’ll keep your breath fresh. Uh, what else?”

“Harry,” Louis giggles. “I’ll be okay, I promise.”

“Right.” Harry glances down at the lip balm and gum, then sheepishly offers it to Louis. “I know. Just feels weird not being able to go with you.”

Louis tucks the items into his pocket, then reaches for Harry’s hands. “Thank you, love. Really.” He leans in and presses a kiss to Harry’s forehead. “You’ve always taken such good care of me.”

Harry circles both arms around Louis’ waist, despite having to lean down to do so. Louis’ arms fall around Harry’s shoulders, one hand stroking his hair.

“I love you,” Louis whispers.

“I love _you_.”

Louis leans back, tucks Harry’s hair behind his ears. “I’ll be back soon.”

Harry grins. “I’ll be waiting up.”

* * * * *

“Harry, pass me a set of chopsticks there, would you?”

Harry sits cross-legged on the floor at the end of the bed, a spread of Chinese takeaway on the carpet in front of him. He’s absently poking at a dumpling with a chopstick and the telly blares at full volume on the wall, his eyes unmoving, glued to the screen.

“Harry.”

Liam reclines on the bed behind Harry, legs crossed in front of him, a carton of lo mein in his lap.

“ _Harry_ ,” Liam hisses, snatching his slipper from his right foot and flinging it at the back of Harry’s head.

Harry grunts and ducks his head, rubbing the point of impact with his free hand. The slipper falls to the floor beside him. “Oi, what did you do that for, mate?”

“Pass me the bloody chopsticks,” Liam snaps.

“Alright, chill out,” Harry says, leaning forward to dig through the paper bag. “Don’t have to be rude.”

“ _You_ chill out,” Liam retorts. He catches the chopsticks Harry tosses behind him and winds a few lo mein noodles around them. “You don’t have to stare like that. You’ll hear when he arrives.” He shovels a mouthful of noodles into his mouth, and mumbles as he chews, “Unless you’re really that interested in what Hozier has to say.”

“Hozier is talented, mate,” Harry protests, still not breaking his gaze at the telly. 

Liam snorts, and stuffs his mouth with more lo mein, leaving Harry to his trance.

On the screen, an antsy reporter interviews various celebrities as they walk by. Each one spouts off their excitement to be in LA, their observation of the high energy atmosphere, the honor it is to be there. Cameras switch back and forth between the interviewer and a woman in a black dress and gold heels who comments on each red carpet outfit as diamond-studded and leather-clad musicians walk proudly by. With the arrival of each limousine, the crowd erupts in deafening screams and a reporter yells into his microphone, one hand pressed over his ear, to announce the latest arrival.

After about twenty minutes of mindless staring as Harry mechanically raises and lowers his chopstick to and from his mouth, another scream blasts from the speakers, and this time, he hears the reporter cry, “Louis Tomlinson has just arrived, there he is!”

Harry’s heart kicks into high gear as he rises from a seated position onto his knees. Sure enough, _there he is_ in his wine-coloured bomber jacket, approaching from the corner of the screen.

“Liam,” Harry chokes, pointing at the screen.

“There’s our boy!” Liam says, grinning as he sets his carton on the bedside table to crawl toward the foot of the bed, closer to the telly.

“He looks amazing,” Harry breathes.

Louis immediately approaches the crowd of fans contained behind the metal barrier, bending over to smile for selfies and sign autographs. The reporter approaches and places a hand on Louis’ shoulder.

“Louis, Louis, you look great tonight,” he says.

Louis gives a fan a tight squeeze, rubbing her back as he leans away. He waves and blows kisses as he’s led further down the carpet. 

“Thanks, mate, yeah,” Louis smiles.

“How are you liking LA so far?”

“Yeah, it’s great, yeah. Weather’s always nice. Love being here for things like this, too, you know, just…” He spreads his hands out, motioning to the crowds around him. Camera flashes flicker around the corners of the screen. “Seeing everyone here. Feels good, yeah. Really lucky. I’m buzzing.”

Louis does Harry’s favourite thing, where he presses his lips together into a tight smile, his mouth forming a slight v-shape. Harry claps a hand over his mouth, grinning through the spaces between his fingers. 

“Oh my god,” he giggles. “Look at him.”

“I am,” Liam chuckles. “I see.”

“So obviously there are a lot of big names here tonight,” the interviewer continues, leaning in closer. “Anyone you’re especially excited about? Or nervous maybe?”

“Mmmm,” Louis nods, his eyes shifting upward as he thinks. 

“He’s going to say Robbie Williams,” Harry whispers without looking away from the screen. “He loves him.”

“Yeah, I think Robbie Williams. You know, he’s just such an amazing artist, and he’s really been inspiring to me, and...well, I was a big fan of his back in the day so I guess you could say it’s one of those things that just makes you a bit nervous, yeah.”

“I told you,” Harry whispers again, groping blindly behind him to swat at Liam’s feet.

“Well, Louis, I have to say, you’ve made quite a splash in the music world with your latest single, ‘Fabulous,’ so congratulations on that,” the reporter offers, clapping his hands in an awkward gesture of celebration.

Louis smiles politely, his eyes crinkling. “Thanks, yeah, I really have the fans to thank for that.” He gestures behind him toward the crowd. “They just reacted better to it than I could have imagined, especially since it was a surprise and all that. Yeah, it’s just been amazing.”

“You’ve had quite the rapid rise to fame, I imagine that would be all pretty overwhelming, isn’t it?” When Louis sticks out his lower lip, tilting his head side to side as if weighing the option, the interviewer continues. “What’s one lesson you’ve learned in the last year that you’d like to share?”

Louis grins, lowering his head to glance at his feet, which he shuffles across the red carpet below him. “Good question,” he muses. “You know, I think the biggest thing is something I’ve learned quite recently, actually, yeah. I think a lot of times I worry quite a bit about the big picture, worrying about how things are going to turn out when all is said and done. But I’ve learned recently, that, you know, it’s not so much about the big picture as it is about the individual moments.” He clasps his hands together in front of him and ducks his head again, smiling at the ground, then returns his gaze to the interviewer. “The little moments add up to something great, you know?”

“Oh my god,” Harry breathes, rolling the seam of his shirt between his fingers.

The interviewer grins, nodding profusely. “Something great, definitely. Well, you must be on to something here tonight because here you are, it’s the VMAs, you look amazing.” He gestures down Louis’ body, from the collar of his jacket to the soles of his shoes. “Who are you wearing tonight?”

Harry claps a hand over his eyes, his shoulders shaking as he laughs. “Oh god. He doesn’t know.”

“Thank you, thank you,” Louis chuckles, lifting his arms from his sides to glance down at his outfit. “Uh, to be quite honest, I have no idea. I could never have picked this out myself, I have a lot of talent on my team. A lot of talent.”

“You’re always so humble, that’s what everyone loves so much about you,” the interviewer says with a pat on Louis’ shoulder. “Well I’ll let you go in just a minute, but first, any surprises we can expect from you tonight?”

Another close-lipped grin stretches across Louis’ face. “You’ll have to wait and see, then, won’t ya? Yeah.”

Laughing, the interviewer draws the microphone back to his mouth. “Looking forward to it. Listen, Louis, thanks so much, congratulations again on all your incredible success.”

“Thanks, mate,” Louis nods. “Yeah, thanks.”

And just like that, the camera switches and they’re on to the next interview.

“He was so good,” Liam says from the bed. “Like, really, really good.”

“He was _so_ good,” Harry echoes, his legs falling to either side and his arms landing limp on the floor between them. “I’m...holy shit.”

Harry feels a hand fall on his shoulder and squeeze lightly. He places his own hand on top. 

“Happy for you, mate,” Liam murmurs from behind him. “Proud of you both.”

Knowing they won’t interview the same artist twice and that he certainly won’t see Louis on the screen again at least until the show starts, Harry tucks into his Chinese food and shovels in as much as he can in the minutes remaining. Liam leaves him to it, and there’s no conversation, just dumplings and rice and the echoes of Louis’ words in Harry’s brain.

Finally, a loud male voice vibrates from the speakers.

“And now, live from Los Angeles, California, the MTV Video Music Awards are back.”

Harry’s heartbeat doubles its rhythm as he flings his arm out beside him, searching blindly across the floor for the remote control to turn up the volume. “Shit, shit, shit, this is it, it’s at the beginning. Liam, are you paying attention? Shit, _shit_.”

“I have the controls up here,” Liam chuckles, pushing buttons until the volume has been raised ten notches.

Nearly twice as loud now, the announcer continues.

“With some of the hottest stars, we’re celebrating the summer with performances from some of the biggest names in music, including Sam Smith, Hozier, Ed Sheeran, Taylor Swift, Nicki Minaj, and more.”

Pictures and video clips of the named artists flash across the screen, splattered with digital images and effects.

“And now. For the first time anywhere in the world.”

“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.” Harry reaches for Liam’s feet behind him again. “Can you come down here? Get the fuck—”

“Premiering live in more than 150 countries.”

The album artwork for Louis’ single flashes on the screen, Louis standing, legs wide, hands thrust in the pockets of a faded denim jacket, staring directly into the camera. Liam crawls down from the bed and sits next to Harry, and—god bless him, really—doesn’t even flinch when Harry digs all five fingernails of his left hand into Liam’s bicep. He just chuckles, and shakes his head, but noticeably doesn’t remove his eyes from the screen, either.

“The world-wide exclusive premier of Louis Tomlinson’s brand new music video for his hit single, ‘Fabulous.’”

Harry will have to thank Liam later for not giving him so much as a sideways glance after the squeal that bursts forward from his lips when, for a split second, the screen goes dark and the music begins.

* * * * *

By the time Louis is back in their hotel room and enveloped by Harry for the foreseeable future, his music video has already been trending for hours. The views within the last four hours are already half the previous twenty-four hour record, held by Taylor Swift, and he’s on track to surpass her and snag the record within the next four. It’s surreal, really. The world outside, wrapped up in all that Louis is and who he’s becoming, and Louis right here, wrapped up in Harry’s arms.

When Louis’ phone rings, Harry groans, and Louis almost doesn’t answer it. But when he digs it out from his pocket to drop it onto the floor, Harry feels his body tense against him.

“Who is it?” Harry whispers into Louis’ hair. He still smells like hair gel, but the path of Harry’s fingers has worn away most of the stiffness.

“It’s Simon.”

“Simon?” Harry repeats, hoping he might have heard wrong.

“Yeah.” Louis wriggles out of Harry’s arms and they both roll over to lie side by side on their backs. As Louis swipes his thumb across the screen to accept the call, Harry slides his hand down the arm Louis left between them and weaves their fingers together, giving him a gentle squeeze.

“Hello?” Louis presses ‘speaker’ on the screen and places the phone face-up on his chest.

“Good evening, Louis,” comes Simon’s voice, sounding tinny through the speaker. “I apologize for calling at such a late hour. I hope you’re not busy.”

Louis rubs his thumb in circles over the back of Harry’s hand. “What do you want, Simon?”

Simon clears his throat noisily on the other end. “Right. Surely you’ve been online within the last hour and you’ve seen the reception of the video.”

“Yeah, I’ve seen things on Twitter.”

“Obviously we didn’t plan for this level of success.” Harry flinches when he hears the words. Didn’t plan for success? As if Louis isn’t _expected_ to succeed? “I know tomorrow was originally your day off,” Simon continues, “but I was wondering if you might stop by for a brief meeting tomorrow discussing a possible change of plans moving forward.”

Louis’ eyebrows shoot up on his forehead. “What kind of change of plans?”

“I’d like to discuss that when we have everyone assembled together. Will tomorrow be appropriate?”

Louis sighs and glances at Harry, who gives him a reassuring nod. “Yeah, sure,” he agrees.

“Excellent. I will email you the address. I look forward to speaking with you.”

“Right,” Louis replies tersely before pressing the ‘end call’ button.

He rolls onto his side, resting his head on Harry’s shoulder and his arm around his waist. Glancing up at Harry, he whispers, “Does that sound good or bad to you?”

Harry’s fingertips trace a path up and down the bare skin of Louis’ arm across his torso. “Hard to tell,” he murmurs. “It’s Simon, so my gut tells me bad. But you are hours from destroying the Vevo record, so my head tells me it doesn’t matter; you’ve got leverage.”

With one hand, Louis pushes himself up until he’s looking down on Harry, whose hair fans out around his head on the plush white pillows. He tilts his head slightly. “Leverage?” His eyes flicker back and forth between Harry’s. “What do you mean?”

“Well, you know.” Harry reaches up and pushes his fingers across Louis’ cheek and over his ear as if tucking his hair back, but his hair is too short to be tucked, and Harry is just looking for an excuse to touch Louis’ sweet, sweet face. “If you think about it, you have a lot more power than they do right now.”

“I do?”

“You definitely do,” Harry says, nodding. “You’re not the young, inexperienced kid they signed anymore. You know how this industry works now. Take Taylor Swift, you know?” When Louis wrinkles his nose, Harry chuckles. “I know, I know, I feel the same way. But why do you think she has as much control over her own image as she does?”

“She’s been at it longer?”

“Maybe,” Harry allows. “I don’t think that’s it, though. I think it’s just because she knows how to play the game.”

“Hmmm.” Louis places both hands, one on top of the other, on Harry’s chest and rests his chin on top. 

“I know you hate the game,” Harry reassures him, fingers still working through his hair. “But you’re still damn good at playing it. I think you could play it tomorrow, too.”

“What, like, basically ask for a glass closet?”

“Is that something you want?”

Louis closes his eyes and blows a long breath out through his nose. “You have no idea.”

“Then yes.” Harry frames Louis’ face with both hands. “Absolutely. You could probably sweet talk them into a coming out timeline if you wanted to.”

“One thing at a time, please,” Louis giggles. “What should I…” He places a palm on either side of Harry’s torso and presses himself up with his biceps. “What should I say, exactly?”

“Okay, how about—” Harry sits up, arranging himself on the bed until he and Louis are cross-legged and facing one another. “Here. Let’s practice. I’m Simon, you’re you.”

Louis throws his head back, laughing with his hand pressed over his mouth. “Oh my god.”

“Babe, come on,” Harry whines. “I’m serious.”

“Fine, fine, okay. You start.”

Harry lowers his voice and, as he speaks, puffs out his chest. “Hi Louis. Welcome to my meeting. Do you like my pecs?”

Louis doubles over, clutching his stomach in laughter. “Fuck—stop, Harry—” he chokes.

“Okay, okay, for real this time.” Harry clears his throat, then starts again. “Hi Louis. I wanted to talk about your video. I was thinking we could make some changes.”

“What changes, Simon?” Louis asks, suppressing a smile.

“Changes that allow me to make more money. Like how about more shows? An extended tour?”

“I have a better idea.”

Harry gasps dramatically and presses a hand to his heart in feigned shock. “You do? What is it?”

“You see, Simon, I am a proud gay man, and I would like to enjoy a glass closet until the end of my tour, at which time I would like to come out publicly.”

“Don’t be ridiculous—”

“Simon,” Louis interrupts. “I mean it. I need the freedom to—”

“Absolutely not,” Harry states firmly, shaking his head for emphasis.

“But I know how to play the—”

“Quite frankly, Louis, I’d rather get rich off of my inhumane—”

“Oh for god’s sake, _let me wear my fucking purple jumper_!” Louis cries.

A beat passes and they stare wide-eyed at each other before dissolving into a fit of giggles.

“You’re ready,” Harry gasps through his laughter. “You’re so ready.”

* * * * *

Harry circles a thumb over the rim of his coffee cup, then lifts it with both hands to rest it against his chin. The spicy sweet scent of cinnamon dolce swirls out from the small opening in the lid and heat gathers in his palms through the warm paper walls of the cup.

The lobby is quiet around him, an easy jazz tune filtering through a pair of speakers on the ceiling. A red-headed woman sits typing rapidly at her computer, fingers flying over the keyboard as she snaps her gum between her teeth. It’s early in the morning. Early enough that Harry can smell breakfast cooking from the hotel dining room, but that only one pair of elderly guests has stepped off the lift and through the hotel lobby in dressing gowns and slippers.

Harry presses a button on his phone to check the time. Louis has been in the hotel conference room down the hall with Simon, Griffiths, and Magee for close to an hour now. When he’d woken up this morning, the shift of the bed as he got up to put clothes on had shaken Harry awake, too. It was early. Earlier than Harry had ever seen Louis awake before. The sun had still been orange, just stretching above the city skyline, when Harry opened his eyes. Louis had sworn it was because he’s been sleeping better lately, but Harry knew it was nerves. 

When Louis was buttoning up his shirt, Harry had stepped behind him and gently massaged his head through his hair, pressing soft kisses up the vertebrae on the back of his neck, hoping to give him something that might ground him somehow.

Now he takes a sip of his latte, most of the warmth having already escaped into the air. When he glances up, the red-head gives him a quick wave and a shy smile, which he politely returns, much to her giggling delight. His battery is low from nearly an hour of absently scrolling through Tumblr, so he selects a magazine from the table beside the sofa.

Halfway through an article about the health benefits of ginger, a weight drops onto the sofa beside Harry. 

“Hey,” Louis says simply, his hand ghosting over Harry’s knee.

Harry folds the magazine and tosses it back onto the table. “Hey, babe.” He presses a kiss to Louis’ forehead, and Louis closes his eyes and leans into it. “How did it go?”

“It went…” Louis begins, reaching for Harry’s hand. “Kind of…” He presses their palms flat together, lining up their fingers. Harry glances down, smiles at the size difference. “Well, amazing.”

Harry’s head jerks up, eyes wide. “Are you serious?”

Louis grins with lips pressed tightly together, wrinkles gathering around his eyes. “I’m serious.”

“Tell me everything.” Harry shifts on the sofa so that he’s sitting sideways, facing Louis head on. “Word for word. What did you say?”

Louis takes both of Harry’s hands, holding them straight out in front of him. “I’m taking you out for a posh brunch. Are you hungry?” When Harry nods quickly, Louis giggles. “Good. We’re having a brunch celebration, and I’ll tell you everything once we’re eating delicious fucking eggs. And then, we’re going shopping.”

“Shopping?”

Louis lifts Harry’s hands, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. “I’m going to need a new wardrobe, Styles the Stylist.” He grins, and it causes Harry’s chest to swell. “It’s your time to shine.”

* * * * *

Over a breakfast of eggs florentine and ricotta hotcakes at a trendy West Hollywood cafe, Louis explains the morning’s deal.

Until the middle of August, he will be granted a trial basis, during which there will be no bearding stunts and his wardrobe will be unmonitored. Reluctant, but satiated by the surge of sales since the music video premier, Simon agreed to a few weeks of, well, _freedom_ , essentially. Freedom that is bound and protected by a written contract. And when Louis’ second single drops in August, its sales will be the main determinant in what Louis will be allowed to do moving forward. 

After brunch they return to their hotel, where Louis skips down the hall and throws open the door to their suite, fumbling through his bags until he finds his favourite Burberry jumper. He wears it that night at his show despite the July heat, paired with light brogues, and refuses to take it off even when sweat catches in the fabric; just rolls up his sleeves and bounces across the stage, and joy is the colour purple.

* * * * *

In the middle of July, they have an entire week off from tour, and Harry, Louis, and Liam all fly back to London for the first time in months. The air hangs thick and low compared to the dry California heat, but it smells like home, and Harry sleeps better the first night back than he has since February.

They try Louis’ house the first night, but with its massive rooms and sprawling ceilings, it feels like their every movement echoes as they rattle about through the open space. The next night, they settle into Harry’s more humble flat where books line the walls and mismatched throw pillows rest atop vintage leather couches, and it all feels so different than the last time Louis was here, like the completion of an unfinished train of thought, a period at the end of a winding, poetic sentence. Just Harry, Louis, and a London flat; alone, uninterrupted, at last.

It’s barely six in the morning when Harry’s phone rings, jolting him from sleep.

“Bloody hell,” he mumbles as he rolls onto his side, groping blindly for source of the sound on the bedside table. Beside him, Louis inhales deeply, pressing the heels of both palms to his eyes. Without looking, Harry swipes his thumb across the screen and presses the phone to his ear. “Hello?” 

“Oh, lovely. Morning, mate,” comes a cheerful voice through the speaker.

Harry squeezes his eyelids tightly. “Liam, what the fuck?”

An arm snakes around his waist, and Harry is pulled backward, his back flattened against Louis’ warm chest. “What’s he want?” Louis whispers, his voice raspy and soft with sleep.

“Wanted to let you know that everything’s all set up for you today.”

Harry groans, and covers Louis’ arm with his own. “It’s six o’clock in the morning.”

“You and Louis have had less than forty-eight hours of uninterrupted alone time,” Liam snorts. “I’m doing what I can to avoid interrupting special private activities.”

“Yeah, well, you’re safe from that, because how could we be fucking if we’re _asleep_?”

Liam chuckles. “Exactly. But you’re going to thank me in about ten seconds, trust me.”

Harry sighs. “I’m listening.”

“Once you hang up, feel free to go back to sleep. But be up by eleven, because I booked you reservations at twelve at Cecconi’s. _Which_ , by the way, just so happens to be quite close to Old Bond Street, where Saint Laurent, Gucci, and Valentino have all been informed that you’ll be by today. They're expecting you.”

Harry's jaw falls open. “You did that for me?”

“Well, technically for Louis,” Liam corrects him. “But yes. That's what you pay me for, believe it or not.”

“Liam, I fucking love you.”

Liam chuckles. “Love you too, mate. Have a good day, alright? Text me if you need anything.”

“I'll send pictures.”

“Only PG ones, please.”

Harry snorts into the speaker. “Gross. Okay, bye, Li.” 

When he drops his phone on the duvet and rolls over to face Louis, Louis giggles and presses a soft kiss to the tip of Harry’s nose. “Morning, gorgeous.”

“Morning, sunshine,” Harry hums against Louis’ mouth.

“What are we doing today?”

“Shhh, I’m not done saying good morning,” Harry whispers. As he kisses Louis, he flips them over until he straddles Louis’ waist, shins framing his hips. “I love this. You. In my bed.”

Louis’ hands trail up Harry’s ribs, sending shivers through his spine. His cheeks are flushed, and his eyes glitter like blue gems in the fresh sunlight as they trace Harry’s movements above him. Along his cheek, indents of Harry’s pillow mark the spot where his face was pressed against the seam. Harry traces them with his thumb, and he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to the thought of being the one Louis wants to spend sleepy mornings with, the one who gets to see him all soft edges and squinty eyes, the one who sees the way he presses the back of his hand to his mouth when he yawns. Doesn’t think he ever wants to get used to it.

Harry lowers himself onto one elbow, his torso flattened skin-to-skin against Louis’, one leg flat on the bed and one thrown over Louis’ thighs. His curls fall around them, framing Louis’ face as his lips explore his skin.

He drops kisses, one after the other, across the bridge of Louis’ nose. “One, two, three,” he murmurs.

“What are you doing?” Louis giggles, his nose pressed into the curve of Harry’s neck.

“Counting.”

Louis presses a kiss to Harry’s chin, wrapping his arms around his neck. “Counting what?”

“Four. That’s how many kisses fit right…” Harry pulls back to look into Louis’ eyes, and he traces his pointer finger gently across the space between them. “...here.”

Louis hums as Harry continues down his face, leaving a trail of kisses behind until he reaches Louis’ mouth.

“I want to map you out,” Harry whispers, his breath ghosting Louis’ lips. “I want to measure space on your body by how many kisses it takes me to get from one place...to the next.” He kisses down Louis’ throat, and Louis groans when he reaches the base of his neck and gently sucks at the soft skin.

“Mmm. Say good morning like this every day.”

Harry presses his lips to the corner of Louis’ jaw, and files this moment away in his collection of moments he’d like to live in forever.

* * * * *

The Old Bond Street Saint Laurent’s interior is mesmerizing to behold. Every surface is either marble or mirrored glass, giving the shop a modern, minimalist atmosphere. Mirrored slats sit in front of the staircase and above the doors in a fashion reminiscent of art deco style, and garments are hung from metal racks in the centre of the room and folded on glass shelves, giving the clothing the appearance of floating.

Harry and Louis wander the shop, and a handful of fans gather outside the window snapping photos on their cell phones. A saleswoman retrieves each piece that they select and sets up a dressing room in the back, complete with a clothing rack, a pot of coffee, and a colourful fruit tray. 

When they’ve combed through the shop and headed to the back room, and Harry has plucked the strawberries from the fruit tray, he selects the first shirt on the rack and holds it up in front of him. “Ready for your fashion show?”

Louis swallows the rest of his coffee and tosses the cup to Harry, who snatches it out of the air with one hand. “Ready.” He tugs his shirt over his head, his muscles rippling under his skin as he frees his arms and tosses the shirt onto the chair behind Harry. 

“Okay, first, let’s try this...one…”

Louis steps across the floor to take hold of Harry’s free hand. He places Harry’s palm on his abdomen, guiding it up his chest, maintaining eye contact even as he shivers when Harry’s thumb ghosts over his nipple.

“Don’t you want to try things on too? Like…”

He leans forward and catches Harry’s bottom lip between his teeth, licking up the whimper that escapes on a ragged breath from Harry’s mouth. He guides Harry’s hand back down his torso and onto his crotch, bending Harry’s fingers to cup Louis’ cock through his jeans.

“This?”

“Louis,” Harry breathes. “If we don’t find you clothes—”

Louis takes the first shirt from the rack, a black and white polka dot button-down shirt. “I like this. Let’s get this one and call it a success.”

Heat is building in Harry’s crotch as his cock stiffens against the seam of his jeans, and judging by Louis’ blown pupils, he is fully aware of Harry’s situation.

Harry reaches behind him for the handle to one of the dressing room stalls and fumbles with it, pushing it open as he stumbles back. “Okay, but after—oh, god—” 

Louis pushes him against the back wall and closes the stall door, locking it with a loud click. His fingers make quick work of Harry’s zipper.

“I’ll try on anything you want,” Louis drawls as he sinks onto his knees. “After.”

Louis drags Harry’s jeans down over his thighs, and his pants quickly follow, his cock springing out of the tight material. 

“You have the prettiest cock,” Louis whispers, leaning in to trail his tongue along the skin on either side of the base of Harry’s cock. 

A low moan escapes Harry’s lips, and he claps a hand over his mouth to catch the sound. Louis wraps his fingers around Harry’s length, jerking slowly, so painfully slowly, and Harry leans his head back, willing himself not to whimper.

“You’re so gorgeous like this.” Louis breaks eye contact with Harry to duck his head and wrap his lips around Harry’s head, swirling his tongue in circles around the tip. Harry’s legs threaten to buckle beneath him, and he tightens his fingers in Louis’ hair for purchase.

As if on cue, Louis sinks down over Harry’s length until Harry is whining with his back arched away from the wall, rocking his hips ever so slightly. He bites down hard on his bottom lip to keep quiet, but Louis’ rhythm and his hot, wet mouth is taking Harry apart from the inside.

When Louis reaches one hand up to massage Harry’s balls and Harry gasps loudly, Louis pulls off with a loud popping sound and glances up at Harry. “Yeah, baby?”

“Don’t—don’t stop,” Harry pants. His hips snap forward, desperate to regain contact with Louis’ mouth.

“Are you ready to come for me?”

Harry balls a fist in Louis’ hair in response, pulling him back in. Louis opens his lips with a smack and takes Harry into his mouth, his other hand curled around the base of Harry’s cock, twisting around him and pumping slightly to meet the rhythm of his mouth.

“Fuck—” Harry whimpers through his fingers. “Right there, L-Louis, right— _shit_.”

Louis gives one more thrust, and Harry feels the tip of his cock hit the back of Louis’ throat. 

“I’m—gonna—”

Louis does something magical and confusing with his tongue, and the tension in Harry’s lower abdomen clenches tight and then bursts, his eyes falling shut to ride out the waves. Two hands hold Harry’s hips tight as his body trembles with the force of his orgasm, and Louis slows his rhythm, gently coaxing him through his release as he accepts every hot spurt of Harry’s come on his tongue.

Harry is absolutely wrecked as he sinks into a seated position on the dressing room floor, his back sliding along the wall on the way down. Louis waits for him to come down, sucking kisses to his trembling lips. After about ten minutes, he’s up and trying on each of the items they’d picked out, patterned shirts, fitted jackets, trousers that hug his thighs like a second skin. 

With each piece, Louis spins in a circle, grinning at Harry on the floor. “Like it?” he asks.

Harry thinks he nods for every article of clothing Louis tries on.

He just likes everything right now. Every fucking thing.

* * * * *

Harry dips a basting brush into a dish of melted butter, swirling it around in the yellow liquid. Butter drips from the bristles and leaves a trail over the work surface as he brings the brush over the pan to cover the bright red beef tenderloin with the oily glaze. [A song by The Neighbourhood](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cUHBUbOcB1c) hums from the speakers in the corner where his phone sits plugged in.

As he reaches over the stove to preheat the oven, a knock comes from the door, three quick raps.

“Come in!” he calls in the direction of the entrance, leaning back to wipe his hands on the front of his apron.

Gemma rounds the corner, a black t-shirt dress shifting over her legs as she steps. A grin splits her cherry-red lips as she approaches across the tiled floor. “Hey, babe.”

Harry reaches out to pull her into a tight hug, rocking her gently back and forth, nuzzling his face in her hair. “Mmm, Gem, I missed you.”

Gemma pulls her head back and wrinkles her nose. “You smell like butter.”

“‘M making Beef Wellington. Just glazed the beef.”

“Oh,” Gemma smiles, one eyebrow lifting on her forehead. “That means…”

Harry turns from the hug, plucking a large glass bottle filled with blood-red liquid from the work surface beside the sink. “A bottle of Merlot,” Harry says, grinning. “Indeed it does. The recipe calls for two tablespoons, but the rest is for drinking. That’s my style.”

“My brother, the wine snob,” Gemma giggles.

“I prefer connoisseur,” Harry winks. “Want a glass now?”

“ _Do_ I,” Gemma sighs, plopping down on a stool at the marble counter. She folds her legs in front of her and rests her chin in her hand. When Harry pours her a glass of wine, she swirls it around in her hand once or twice, then tips it back on her lip, her tongue smacking as he swallows. “So what’s the occasion?”

Harry pulls open the door to the refrigerator, shuffling around in the shelves to retrieve a ceramic bowl of chopped onions and sliced mushrooms. “Well…okay.” He tips the bowl, pouring its contents into a hot skillet of melted butter on the stove. “So, Louis’ new song, ‘Fabulous.’ Have you heard it?”

“Yeah, it’s a lot of fun,” Gemma nods, shuffling her feet behind the counter.

Harry slides out a wooden drawer beside the stove, selecting a long wooden spoon. He stirs the onions and mushrooms in the skillet with one hand, and leans one hip against the cabinets, gesturing as he talks. “I was with Louis the morning after it came out. He found out it was number one in like...all these countries, and in a fit of, whatever, I don’t know, emotion, I guess, he kissed me.”

Gemma narrows her eyes at him from across the rim of her wine glass. “Go on.”

“So, I freaked out a little bit. I really thought he didn’t mean anything by it, so I kind of made the decision to do what I could to get over him, I guess.” He scoops a mushroom from the bubbling butter and lifts it to his mouth, blowing on it until it’s cool enough to pop into his mouth. “So I was like, ‘I have to spend less time with him,’ you know?”

“Right,” Gemma snorts, studying the ripples in her drink as she spins the glass on its base. “Well, quit rambling, then, babe. What happened?”

“Well, I avoided him for like two weeks.” Harry flicks off the heat, and removes the skillet from the burner. “And then one day he just came running in and, like, he thought _he_ fucked up. Like, he thought he freaked me out by kissing me.” He turns to face Gemma, leaning back against the cabinets. “But he said before I left for good, he had to tell me he loved me.”

Gemma lets her wine glass rest against her shoulder as she tilts her head to the side, grinning at Harry, but she doesn’t say anything, which causes Harry to shift uncomfortably at the stove.

“And, yeah, like. We’re together now, so. It just kinda...happened. That’s what this is for. To tell you.”

“Can I ask my obligatory big sister questions?”

Harry removes a glass from the cabinet for himself and fills it halfway with wine. Rounding the counter, he slides onto the stool beside Gemma. “Ask away.”

Gemma holds up two fingers. “Two questions. First, how does he make you better?”

Harry takes a sip of his wine, savoring the flavour as he swirls it around his mouth, then swallows. “Gem...in every way. Honestly. He doesn’t give a fuck what people think about him, and he makes me not want to care either. He calls me out when I’m getting scared about stupid things. He helps me think things through more, too. He’s so intentional about his decisions, and that’s always been something I’ve had a hard time with.” Harry ducks his head to study his glass. “And...I don’t know. He just makes me happy, Gem. He’s so much fun. He’s my favourite person I know.”

“I know,” Gemma smiles, placing a hand on Harry’s forearm and rubbing her thumb in circles. “I remember our breakfast months ago, before you left for tour. I’ve never heard you talk about anyone that way.”

Harry can feel heat blooming in his cheeks, so he laughs softly to himself and mutters, “What was the second question?”

“If I were to ask him,” Gemma begins, her features softened with affection. “What would he say he loves most about you, do you think?”

Harry furrows his eyebrows. “I think...he loves that I have faith in him. In people in general, I think.”

Gemma’s wine glass is placed on the marble surface with a loud clack. “Tell me he’s coming later. Harry, I have to see your fucking _boyfriend_ again, I haven’t seen him since the Christmas party.”

“He’s, uh…” Harry breathes a laugh and ducks his head. “He’s actually in my room right now.”

“Harry Styles,” Gemma clucks, her eyes wide. “The boy hasn’t been home even once, has he?”

“We stayed at his house the first night back,” Harry replies, defensive.

“‘ _We_ ,’” Gemma repeats with a shake of her head. Harry watches her from his seat, one elbow resting on the counter. When he doesn’t make a move to stand up from the stool, Gemma flails a hand in the direction of the hall. “Well? Go _get_ your boy.”

“Right. Okay.” 

He jumps down from the stool and steps quickly out of the kitchen and down the hall. Softly, he opens the door to his bedroom and pushes his head through the small opening.

Louis is face down on the bed, one leg under the duvet and one above. One arm is tucked under his face, and the other dangles off the edge of the bed, his fingers twitching every few seconds. His mouth hangs open slightly, soft breaths passing in and out in the slow, lazy rhythm of sleep. A book lies open on the floor below his dangling arm.

Harry approaches the side of the bed and lowers himself onto his knees, reaching out one hand to push a few strands of hair back from Louis’ forehead with the backs of his fingers.

“Baby,” he murmurs. He presses his lips to the tip of Louis’ nose, and feels Louis wrinkle it at Harry’s touch. A gentle sigh escapes Louis’ lips as he shifts on the bed and his eyelids flutter open. 

“Good morning, sunshine” Harry whispers, returning his lips to Louis’ face to sprinkle him with kisses.

Louis giggles into Harry’s neck. “Did I fall asleep?”

“You did,” Harry grins. “You really thought you could read in bed and actually stay awake? When has that ever worked?”

“I wanted to try,” Louis whines.

Harry kisses Louis, gentle and affectionate. “Persistent, baby.”

“Mmm.” Louis kicks his leg out from under the duvet and rolls onto his back, tossing one arm above his head. “Is Gemma here yet?”

“Just talked to her. She knows, and she’s really excited to see you again, all official this time.”

“Looking like _this_?” Louis groans, and presses both palms over his eyes.

Harry pries Louis’ hands away, and plants a kiss on the bridge of his nose. “You look perfect. Listen.” Harry places a palm on Louis’ chest through his t-shirt. “She’s already met you, so she already knows she loves you.”

Louis sighs. He flattens his hands on the mattress and pushes himself up until he’s in a sitting position, leaning back against the headboard. “Harry, she’s your family.”

“I know.”

“So this is really important to me.”

“Are you…” Harry leans in until his nose nearly brushes Louis’, and one corner of his mouth turns up into a smirk. “Nervous?”

“Whatever you’re doing in there,” Gemma calls from the kitchen. “Can you save it until tonight when I’m no longer two rooms over?”

Harry giggles, lowering his forehead to Louis’ shoulder. “Come on.”

In the kitchen, Gemma stands up and bypasses Harry, heading directly to Louis to pull him into a tight hug. With both arms flung around his shoulders, she rocks him back and forth, grinning at Harry over his shoulder.

She leans back, both hands on Louis’ biceps. “So good to see you again, Louis. Didn’t know when it would happen for him, but here I am, meeting Harry’s boyfriend.”

“Hey,” Harry protests with a hand on his hip.

Louis chuckles, gesturing to himself with both hands. “The one and only.”

“God,” Gemma says under her breath, shaking her head with wide, glittering eyes. “Harry, close your ears for a moment.” When Harry giggles and takes a few steps back, she holds firmly to Louis. “Thank you,” she whispers. “For making my brother so happy, from day one. You’ve been a gift.”

“Oh, no,” Louis ducks his head to hide the blush that paints his cheeks. “He’s the gift, believe me.”

Gemma reaches for both of Louis’ hands. “I’m sure you know,” she says, her voice so low that Harry has to strain to hear her. “He’s been hurt before. Didn’t know when he’d let himself be open again.” Louis nods firmly, his expression stony and serious. “First time I heard him talk about you, though, I knew it was a matter of time. That you’d be the one to, you know. Make it okay for him to open up.”

Louis laughs quietly. “If I’m honest, I was quite expecting to be grilled, not embarrassed.”

Gemma’s laugh is louder. “I can grill you, if you’d like. I do have one question.”

“Please.”

“I asked my brother this, too. What do you love _most_ about him?”

“What do I—have you _met_ your brother? I was in trouble from day one.”

Gemma grins. “You have to pick.”

“I think…” Louis glances down at his feet, then up at Harry, who gives him a sweet smile. Then he looks back at Gemma. “I love the way he sees the world. His faith in people. In me, too.”

Gemma throws her hands up in the air, then drops them at her sides. “Fuck, I don’t know whether to laugh or be sick,” she cries.

With furrowed brows, Louis looks at Harry, a question etched in his expression. Harry walks back toward them, and pulls both of them, one in each arm, into a crushing hug. “That’s exactly what I guessed you’d say,” Harry says with a kiss on Louis’ head. He ruffles Gemma’s hair with one hand, and hums contentedly. 

“My two favourite people in the world,” he grins. “Who wants more wine?”

* * * * *

[Sea of Love - Cat Power](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NjE9CoH9avs)

“Can I open them now?”

“Nope,” Louis says from behind Harry, his hands covering Harry’s eyes. “Few more steps to go.”

The air feels moist with each breath Harry takes, and it smells earthy, like mud, and a bit like rotten fish. Goosebumps prickle on his arms despite the summer humidity.

“Do I hear water?”

“Maybe.”

“Are we at the b—”

“Harry,” Louis hisses, cutting him off. “Just shut up and let me do what I planned.”

“Okay, okay,” Harry giggles. Louis guides him off the flat concrete surface and onto a soft one. The ground gives way under his feet, and he flings his arms out to steady himself. “Whoa, okay.”

Harry opens his eyes and attempts to see through the cracks between Louis’ fingers, but little light filters through. Everything is dark and damp, and the ground is slippery like mud, like a bank worn smooth by water. It’s somewhere Harry is almost certain he's been a thousand times before. All of his senses would tell him that Louis has taken him to—

“Okay,” Louis says. “Here we are. Open your eyes.”

When Louis removes his hands, Harry opens his eyes and takes in his surroundings.

“The bridge,” Harry breathes.

The moonlight is wispy in Louis’ hair, and it frames his body so that his features are cast into shadow as he watches Harry take it in. His eyes glitter like black glass in the darkness, and his breath is slow, echoing in the heavy silence.

Harry reaches for Louis’ hand and rubs his thumb, feather soft, over the smooth skin on the back. “Why here?”

“Well, look.” Louis gestures to the wall of writings in front of them.

Inky secrets and scribbled confessions are scrawled across the weathered brick. Someone has drawn an exquisite replication of a rose since the last time they’d been here.

“It's the wall.”

Louis grips the fingers of his right hand with his left, twisting them nervously. “I brought you here because I wanted to show you something. On this wall.”

Harry’s chest swells like the crest of a wave at the stormy colour of Louis’ whirlpool eyes.

“Okay,” Harry whispers. “Can I see?”

It's so silent tonight that the sound of a passing car and the bark of a dog from the street above them sounds brutally out of place.

“Do you remember what we talked about when you brought me here last time?”

Harry nods slowly. “We talked about a lot of things. People, fame, choices.”

“Choices,” Louis repeats. He's moving like his skin is charged with electricity. “Do you remember what I said about choices?”

“Of course,” Harry murmurs. “You said they're important to you. That you want your life to be a life you chose.”

Louis drags a long, deep breath, and it catches somewhere in his throat on the way. Maybe it's something about this time of night, something about this place, that makes Louis look so soft, so terribly and beautifully exposed to Harry, and Harry wants to kiss him just to taste the confession that's building on his lips like a drop of salt water.

“Come here,” Louis whispers. He gestures to a spot on the wall, a collection of carved letters, and motions for Harry to move closer.

Harry squints, bending forward to reach the words etched into the brick.

_I’ll choose you again tomorrow._

Harry doesn’t know why, but he shivers, and the air between them is electrified.

“What is this from?”

“I, um…” Louis ducks his head, kicks once at the grass, then glances back up at Harry. “I wrote it.” Harry’s heartbeat grows louder and faster like a crescendo, and threatens to burst through his ribs when Louis adds, “For you.”

Harry steps closer to Louis, but cannot pry his eyes from the words, just wants to feel Louis’ touch. “When?”

“The night I realised I loved you,” Louis murmurs, turning his head until his words become tangled in Harry’s hair as he says them. “After Corden. Snuck out here and wrote it. I never thought I’d take you to see it.”

Harry lowers his head onto Louis’ shoulder, squeezing his bicep with one hand. “What does it mean? What’s tomorrow?

“Tomorrow is every day,” Louis answers, and Harry drinks in every word, as much of him as he can hold. “I chose, that night, to be okay with loving you. To not suppress the feeling just because maybe it wasn’t the best choice or because you didn’t feel the same way. And if I chose it once, I knew I’d choose it again the next day, and again every day.”

“Louis,” Harry whispers, because what else can he say but the most precious two syllables he knows?

He wraps his arms around Louis’ waist and holds him, here at the beginning and end of all things.

* * * * *

Louis backs Harry up to the edge of the bed and pushes him flat on the mattress, pillowing Harry’s head with his hand as Harry falls backward.

He leans forward to drop kisses across Harry’s collarbones and lathe his tongue over his nipple. Harry’s hand fists in Louis’ hair, guiding him across his body, soft whimpers dropping from his lips at the warm skin-on-skin contact.

“ _Louis_ ,” Harry whispers. He reaches a hand between them to wrap his fingers around Louis’ cock, pumping slowly in time to the hisses that escape between Louis’ teeth.

Louis leans down to coax Harry’s mouth open with his lips, and between sucked kisses, Louis mumbles, “I love you so much— _fuck_ , gonna make you feel so—good.”

After Harry has dragged Louis onto the bed along with him, rolled him over onto his back, and opened him up with long, slick fingers until he’s panting and clutching at the sheets with tight fists and white knuckles, Harry licks a stripe up Louis’ heaving stomach, savoring the salty flavour of the sweat on his tongue. 

“You look so gorgeous, baby,” Harry drawls, pumping his cock slowly in his fist as he positions himself on his knees in front of Louis. “All spread out, waiting for me.” Harry presses the tip of his cock against Louis’ opening and watches Louis’ mouth fall open as his eyes flutter closed.

“Hurry—the fuck— _up_ ,” Louis pants, his breath coming ragged through his throat.

“Alright,” Harry murmurs, pressing kisses across Louis’ face, then down the column of his throat. “Are you ready for me?”

“ _Yes_.”

Harry licks his tongue over the dip of Louis’ right collarbone, then whispers into the curve of his neck, “Do you know what I want to do to you?”

Frantically clutching at Harry’s waist, Louis’ pulls their bodies closer together, desperately twitching his hips in an attempt to slip Harry inside by himself. “Fuck, _Harry_ —what?”

“I want…” Harry kisses along the centre of Louis’ chest, where his ribs meet. “I want…” Harry draws out the words this time, leaning back to square his hips. “To make love to you,” he finishes, and pushes his hips forward to thrust into Louis.

“Oh god,” Louis cries, his back arching obscenely as he breathes through it. “Oh, _fuck_ , yes, Harry.”

Harry stills to allow Louis to adjust to his width, and sucks kisses across the salty skin of his chest. Louis’ hands suddenly wind themselves in Harry’s hair and tug _hard_ to lift Harry’s head up.

“Fucking _move_.”

Obedient, Harry drags his hips back, then thrusts them forward again, his balls making an obscene sounds as they slap Louis’ bare skin. He finds his rhythm, and Louis pants beneath him, tugging himself down to meet every thrust. 

One of Harry’s hands trails slowly through the sheen of sweat on Louis’ torso and over his hip to hook behind his thigh. “You’re so…” Harry lifts Louis’ leg over his own hip, and Louis quickly lifts the other one, hooking his ankles behind Harry’s back. “Fucking gorgeous.”

With fumbling fingers, Louis presses himself into a seated position, and Harry groans at the new angle.

“Lie back,” Louis says, and it is probably meant to sound like a demand, but it falls out alongside a moan so it just sounds desperate.

Harry’s cock slips out during the movement, so Louis straddles him, his shins framing Harry’s hips, and spits into his right palm. The combination of lube and spit makes a wet sound as Louis works his fist over Harry’s cock, and Harry’s hips twitch upward for a faster tempo.

When Louis seems satisfied, he lifts himself up onto his knees and guides his hips over Harry until the tip of Harry’s cock is aligned with his entrance.

As he lowers himself around Harry, his eyes flutter closed and he bites down hard on his lower lip. Both hands come down to flatten themselves on Harry’s stomach, and the pressure is glorious on Harry’s flushed skin as Louis presses himself up, then lowers down again.

Louis is like a vision above him, working his hips over Harry’s cock, his stomach muscles tightening and rippling with each rotation. Beads of sweat slip down the curve of his neck and the occasional drop slides along his arm and onto Harry’s shuddering torso. His body is tight and lush around Harry’s cock, and Harry is moments away from slipping into sensory overload.

“ _Fuck_ you're so—want to taste you,” Harry groans. “Want your mouth.”

“Okay, baby,” Louis murmurs, placing his arms on either side of Harry’s head to lower himself over him. He continues to fuck back on Harry’s cock, and their kiss is a mixture of desperate tongues and hot, panting breaths as they crash together.

“Wait, wait,” Harry pants, gripping Louis’ arse with both hands.

Louis stills over him, and before he can ask any questions, Harry spreads Louis’ arse cheeks with his palms and begins to thrust his hips up _hard_.

Louis cries out, and his head falls onto the pillow beside Harry’s head, his face buried in Harry’s neck and his whimpers muffled in Harry’s hair. With each thrust, Louis is jerked forward from the force of it.

“Yes—fuck, yes, _yes_ ,” Louis calls out, deafeningly loud in Harry’s ear. “ _God_ , oh my god!

“So good, so good, so good,” Harry moans, and digs his fingertips into the thick muscle of Louis’ arse.”

“Oh—shit, faster, _please_ —”

Harry’s thrusts are nearly frantic now, his hips snapping up as fast as he can manage. Low, guttural moans tear out of his throat as he hurtles faster and faster toward the edge.

“Right— _there_ ,” Louis gasps, clenching hard around Harry. “Don’t stop, don’t _fucking_ —”

Harry comes first, with a loud cry that rips through him like a bolt of lightning, and his orgasm is equally white hot.

Louis follows close behind, with a sputtering groan, a splatter of hot come in the downy hair of Harry’s stomach, and a wrecked whisper as he collapses over him, “I love you.”

* * * * *

The next day, Louis supposes they had better at least pretend to spend some time at his house, and not just lie around at Harry’s flat the whole break, so he and Harry wake up in the morning and drive over in Harry’s car. Louis suggests having Liam and Sophia over for dinner, and Harry volunteers to cook.

“My cabinets are pretty bare,” Louis warns, padding over to pull one open in demonstration.

“That’s alright,” Harry smiles, walking over to where Louis is standing. “We can make a stop at the shop.” He presses a kiss to Louis’ forehead, then reaches around him to take his own inventory. “Yeah, you’re right. I can’t make much with chicken broth and random spices. Shall we?”

Harry motions toward the door, and Louis wraps both arms around Harry’s waist, grinning up at him. “Lead the way.”

At the shop, Harry piles their basket with ingredients for spinach lasagne, and Louis slips in a pint of ice cream when he thinks Harry isn’t looking. Harry slips in a packet of gummy candies because he knows they’re Louis’ favourite.

When they’ve returned to Louis’ house, Harry spreads out his ingredients across the work surface and turns on his favourite Fleetwood Mac album. As he stirs the vegetables and spices over the heat, Louis presses himself against Harry’s back and rubs his hands in circles over Harry’s stomach to the beat of [“You Make Loving Fun.”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ssXFJ1ZKsQg) When Harry furrows his brow in concentration as he layers the pasta and sauce in the pan, Louis gathers the curls that fall over Harry’s eyes and sweeps his hair into a bun for him. And when Harry sprinkles a parsley garnish over the bubbling finished product, Louis sprinkles the back of his neck with kisses.

Harry exhales a laugh as he wipes his hands on his apron, then turns to face Louis and pulls him close. “You’re so distracting.”

Louis grins and lifts himself onto his toes to kiss Harry’s nose. “Good.”

Harry catches Louis’ lips between his teeth, then coaxes his mouth open. They share a series of lazy, open-mouthed kisses, then Louis inhales and pulls away. 

“You know,” he hums. “We should probably clean before they get here. We should hoover the carpet, at least. And dust.”

“Okay,” Harry nods. “Which of those do you want me to do?”

Louis thinks for a moment, then a lopsided smile pushes at his lips and his eyes glitter. “You should do the carpet.”

“Why are you smiling like that?”

Ignoring his question, Louis motions down the hall. “The hoover is in the hall closet.”

Harry rolls his eyes affectionately and retrieves the hoover, unraveling the cord and flipping the switch. The loud roar of the machine fills the room and muffles Louis’ giggling. When Harry reaches the end table and leans over to push the hoover underneath, it hits him.

He jolts upright, banging his head on the table above him. As he rubs his head, he snatches the cord out of the wall so that the room goes silent.

“You little shit,” Harry says.

Louis stops dusting the photo frames on the bookshelf and cocks one hip out, placing a hand on his hip. His head is already swiveled over his shoulder, practically breaking his neck to stare at Harry.

“Who, me?” Louis bats his eyelashes.

“You just wanted to stare at my arse when I bent over,” Harry accuses him.

“You know damn well you’ve done worse,” Louis replies, waving the duster in the air and fighting laughter.

“I have not.”

“Oh, right. So those tweed trousers were just _practical_ , then,” Louis retorts, turning his back to Harry to continue dusting. “The way they hugged my arse and thighs was mere _coincidence_.”

Harry shakes his head, hiding a smile. “You said you liked those.”

“I _do_ , but that’s beside the point, isn’t—”

Louis is interrupted by a rapping at the door. Harry drops the hoover cord on the carpet. “I’ll get it. For your attitude, you can put the hoover back in the closet.”

Louis rolls his eyes, but gives Harry’s hip a playful tap as he walks by him toward the door.

Harry pulls the door open expecting two bodies, but instead, he sees three.

“Niall!” he cries, leaping through the doorway to fling his arms around Niall’s shoulders.

Niall chuckles. He musses Harry’s hair with one hand and he claps his back with the other. “Surprise, mate!”

“Bloody hell, Niall,” Harry exhales quickly, as if trying to catch his breath. He pulls back from the hug and places both hands on Niall’s shoulders. “When did you get to London? And _what_ is with this _hat_? I did not teach you that.” Harry playfully swats at Niall’s head.

Niall removes a grey tweed newsboy cap from his head, twirling it in circles on his pointer finger. “What’s wrong with the hat?” He smooths a hand over his blonde hair and replaces the cap. “I’m bringing it back in style.”

“God, I hope not,” Harry chuckles. Harry turns to Sophia, who stands to Niall’s left. “Hey, babe.” He reaches toward her to draw her into a tight hug. “You look gorgeous, as usual,” he says in her ear. He leans back with a playful tug on her hair.

“Thank you, darling,” Sophia grins. “You look especially bright and cheery, don’t you?” She pinches his chin, then tosses him an exaggerated wink.

Blushing, Harry ducks his head and moves on to Liam, who offers him a fist. Harry touches his knuckles to Liam’s and gives him a quick squeeze on the shoulder.

“Well, come in, come in.” Harry motions into the house and steps back to allow his friends in. “Hope you’re hungry. We made dinner.” 

Strangely, it doesn’t feel odd to refer to himself and Louis as a ‘we’ to his friends. Perhaps because they’ve been more or less a package deal since the fall.

“Is that Niall Horan in _my_ house?” Louis appears at the end of the hall, his grin and his arms equally wide. “Get ‘ere.”

Niall launches himself into a crushing hug. “So good to see you, mate.”

After they’ve said their greetings, everyone circles around the dinner table except for Louis, who searches through four different drawers before he finds a proper serving utensil.

“Who’s up first?” Louis asks, holding his spatula out in front of him, his other hand tiny inside a massive oven mitt.

“Niall, since he’s our surprise guest of honour,” Harry suggests, passing out napkins to each guest.

“Actually, I think you, Harry, since you cooked us this delicious meal.”

Niall coughs loudly. “Excuse me, the man said _guest of honour_.”

Harry dimples at Louis. “Thanks babe, but he’s right, it’s only polite.”

“Get on with it, then,” Liam groans. “God help us all the day these two move in together.”

Louis swats the back of Liam’s head with his oven mitt covered hand. “Oi, shut the fuck up, will you? I’m serving you last.” He scoops a massive slice of lasagne onto Niall’s plate, then continues around the table until he reaches Liam. “Oh, well, bloody hell, would ya look at that! There’s none left!”

Liam’s eyebrows practically shoot off his forehead. “For fuck’s sake—” He stands to peer into the serving dish, preparing to give Louis a proper scolding, but then he realises that there’s still a third of the dish left. “Ah, fuck you,” Liam sighs.

Niall cackles loudly, leaning over his plate. Bits of lasagne cling to his tongue, and Sophia scrunches her nose at the sight of the chewed food.

“I fuckin’ love this guy,” Niall laughs. “Fuckin’ love him.”

Harry spears a bite of lasagne on his plate and shakes his head, chuckling. “Me too.”

* * * * *

Road trips are high on the list of Harry’s favourite things.

Road trips to meet his boyfriend’s family...well, he has a bit more mixed emotions about that one.

“Baby,” Louis giggles. “You’ll be _fine_.”

“How do you know?” Harry pouts. 

It’s six o’clock in the morning. At nine, they’re leaving to visit Louis’ mum and sisters, and Harry hasn’t been able to fall back asleep since he woke up at four. Finally, he’d woken Louis up with noisy cheek kisses, and now Louis was seated on the bed, cradling Harry’s head in his lap.

“I know because…” Louis murmurs, drawing his fingers through Harry’s hair, separating small sections. “I have never met a person who _didn’t_ love you.”

“Not true.”

“Who doesn’t love you?” Louis asks. He begins to twist sections of Harry’s hair together, forming little messy braids.

“Um…” Harry mumbles. “Simon doesn’t love me.”

“Simon doesn’t love anyone,” Louis chuckles. “Probably doesn’t love his own kid.”

Harry giggles. “Probably not.”

“See?” Louis says, leaning down over Harry so that Harry can see his face. “And my mum loves kids, so there you go.”

“Are you saying I’m a kid?”

“ _No_ , you goof,” Louis giggles, digging a finger into Harry’s side. “I’m saying the only person who doesn’t love you probably isn’t capable of loving even a baby. And my mum loves babies. So she will love you.”

“Okay, okay,” Harry says. He flips over and pushes himself up until he’s sitting upright. “Will you shower with me before we leave?”

Louis leans forward to plant a gentle kiss to Harry’s pouting lips. “Of course.”

“Wash my hair?”

Louis’ shoulders shake as he chuckles. “Okay, come on, let’s go.”

* * * * *

“Driver picks lunch, passenger picks music, rock paper scissors.”

Harry’s body forms an s-shape as he places one hand on his hip. From the other hand dangles a paper bag of sandwiches and homemade cookies. “But I already packed lunch for us.”

“Well,” Louis shrugs. He pulls the passenger door open. “You already picked lunch, then, so passenger seat for me it is.” He quickly scrambles into the car and slams the door behind him, giggling at his victory. 

Harry rolls his eyes. Louis is probably in there, already picking out songs to play during the car ride. Harry tosses the last duffel bag sitting in the driveway into the boot of the car and pulls the top closed. When he pries the driver’s side door open and tosses the lunch bag into Louis’ lap, Louis digs his keys out of his pocket and hands them to Harry. He leans across the centre console to press a kiss to Harry’s temple.

“Thanks, baby,” Louis smiles. “What do you want to hear first?”

“Hmm,” Harry hums. “I don’t know. Surprise me.”

Louis grins. “Perfect.”

Harry inserts the car key and turns it to start the car, hears the purr of the engine as it hums to life. Placing his foot on the brake, he shifts into gear. “Do you have the directions on your GPS?”

“Yeah, it’s a left here. Put on your seatbelt.”

Harry chuckles, and reaches over his shoulder to strap himself in. “You know, I managed to survive twenty-one years without you already.”

“Yeah, well,” Louis grumbles, lowering his head to thumb through his playlists. “I’m here now and I want you around a lot longer than twenty-one more, so.”

God, Harry hopes Louis doesn’t feel the car lurch forward ever so slightly as his foot slips on the pedal. One of his hands finds its way to Louis’ knee.

“I love you very much.”

Louis exhales a short laugh through his nose. “I love _you_ very much.” He presses play, and Paul Simon’s [“You Can Call Me Al”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RDApDVQehwg) begins to vibrate through the car’s speakers.

Harry’s grin explodes over his face as he comes to a stop at the traffic light at the exit of Louis’ gated community. “This is such a perfect road trip song.”

“ _A man walks down the street, he says, ‘Why am I soft in the middle now?’_ ” Louis sings, patting his stomach as he sways back and forth in his seat to the beat. 

When Harry pulls onto the motorway, he can feel them both settle into their seats. Harry shifts on his bum until he finds a comfortable angle, maneuvering the steering wheel with just one hand. His other hand is clutched in Louis’, who rubs his thumb over the back of Harry’s hand as he gazes out across the road that stretches before them. A pair of aviators started out over his eyes, but have now drooped down his nose, but Louis can’t be bothered to fix them. He’s sunk low in his seat, and he’s slipped out of his shoes to rest two socked feet on the dashboard.

They drive for hours like that, Louis bobbing his head to the music, Harry’s eyes fastened on the road, both of them belting out every word to every song Louis plays. Every once in a while, Louis lifts Harry’s hand to his lips to kiss each knuckle and smile at him from across the centre console.

The trip has two highlights to speak of. The first is when Louis’ lips linger a bit too long on Harry’s knuckles and he lathes his tongue over the tiny bumps and Harry nearly swerves off the road. As soon as he regains his bearing, he pulls off to the side at the nearest opportunity and they fumble their way into the backseat, tearing shirts and trousers off between clutching hands and hot, panting breaths. It’s clumsy fingers and funny noises and it’s just about the hottest thing Harry could have possibly imagined. When they finally get back on the road, Louis’ GPS flashes an arrival time that’s nearly an hour later than they originally planned, and Louis has to call his mum to update her. He fumbles through vague answers to unknown questions, and when he hangs up, his face is furiously red.

The second is when Louis puts on Shania Twain’s [“Man! I Feel Like A Woman!”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7ajjUwbk27M) Louis invents this ridiculous shoulder thrust just for the occasion, and he sings every word flawlessly and at the top of his lungs. Harry doesn’t know why it turns him on, but it does. Louis plays it four more times in a row, each time with just as much gusto as the first.

When Louis warns him that the next exit is the one they want to take, Harry accidentally-on-purpose drives right past it, and it buys him fifteen more minutes of singing and car-dancing with Louis. And Louis must have known, because he doesn’t even flinch, just puts Shania on for a sixth time and presses a loud, smacking kiss to Harry’s cheek.

* * * * *

[The Luckiest - Ben Folds](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f9bRmuP-kQY)

When Harry pulls the car onto Louis’ street, there’s no doubt which house belongs to his family.

In the passenger seat, Louis groans and presses the heels of his palms over his eyes and sinks low in his seat. “Oh my god, they’re so embarrassing.”

A small cottage-style home sits back from the street a bit, and green grass stretches in front of it, littered with little toys and games. A narrow porch runs the length of the house, and on it are seven figures; three larger and four tiny ones.

“They’re waiting for us,” Harry squeals. “That’s so cute. Hey, c’mon. It’s not embarrassing.”

Harry grins and tosses them a wave as he directs the car into the drive beside the house. Four of the figures come running, limbs flailing, toward the car as Harry shifts into park. Harry’s mum holds one hand of each of the babies and guides them at a much slower pace in their direction.

“Okay,” Harry exhales.

“Okay,” Louis nods. “Here we go.”

Louis steps out of the car first, and all four of his sisters crowd him instantly, chattering over one another and fumbling for a hug from their brother. Harry ducks out next, and kicks the door closed behind him, thrusting his hands in his pockets as he smiles at the reunion scene.

As he watches, Louis’ mum heads directly for Harry. He feels a gentle hand placed between his shoulder blades, and he turns to find her grinning up at him.

“Hello, love,” she says. “I’m Jay.” She offers a hand, which Harry gratefully accepts. “You have no idea how wonderful it is to finally meet you.”

“Oh, it is so good to meet you as well,” Harry nods, her soft expression making the exchange practically effortless. “I’ve heard so many stories over the months. I’m sorry it took so long for a visit.”

“Oh, darling, that’s quite alright,” Jay replies with a flick of her wrist. “I know we’ve been planning this visit for a few months now, but,” she winks, “recent events have made me even more excited to meet you.”

Harry smiles and glances over at Louis, who is scooping Daisy off the ground to spin her around. He nods again. “Me too.”

“Feels like I know you already,” Jay says, rubbing her hand over Harry’s back. “Welcome to the family. This is Doris, and this is Ernest.” She crouches down to the twins’ level, raising the pitch of her voice slightly. “Can you say hi?”

The twins shyly wave at Harry, who also lowers himself to their height. “Oh, you two are just too polite,” he coos.

Louis approaches behind him and presses two fingers into his side. Harry yelps, and reaches for Louis’ hand to hold it still. 

“Mum, can we steal him for a minute to introduce him to the girls?”

“Of course,” Jay grins.

“Girls, go ahead,” Louis says, gesturing to Harry, who turns around to face them.

“I’m Lottie,” says the tallest one with platinum blonde hair and bold eyeshadow. She smiles when Harry offers a hand, and bypasses it for a hug. Harry loves a hugger.

The next younger one, a brunette with a sweet face, speaks next. “Felicite. I go by Fizzy. I love your hair.”

Harry instinctively rakes a hand through his curls and smiles bashfully. “Thanks, I love yours.”

The twins, Phoebe and Daisy, introduce themselves briefly and reveal that there is tea and cake waiting inside, scurrying off in hopes of receiving their pieces first. 

After everyone has eaten and Harry and Louis have recounted the activities of their break so far, Louis sweeps his sisters and Ernest into the adjacent room in a whirlwind of giggles, leaving Harry and Jay at the table together.

“So tell me about you, babe,” Jay begins, stirring her tea with a tiny silver spoon. Her copper hair is twisted into a loose braid, and her eyes—oh, Harry knows where Louis gets his from.

“Well,” Harry clears his throat. “I'm twenty-one. Went to the University of Manchester to study law, but when I realised that wasn't for me, I sort of started looking into other things, and—”

Jay smiles into her mug and shakes her head. “No, no. I've heard all that from my son. You interned under Niall Horan’s head stylist and took his spot when the time came.” Her eyes sparkle at the surprise in Harry’s. “I know. Tell me about _you_. What do you love? Why fashion?” She leans forward with both elbows resting on the table, and she looks genuinely interested.

“Why fashion?” Harry repeats, stacking his arms on the table. “Well, honestly, because I can't draw or play music,” he chuckles. “Really, that's what drew me in the first place. I wanted to create, you know, I've always been, like, artistic I guess. But I wasn't good enough at other forms of art. Fashion, though, that interested me _and_ I was good at it.”

“I heard you cook,” Jay adds. “That's creative, too.”

Harry smiles. “I guess it is, yeah.”

“And thank god for it,” Jay chuckles, shaking her head. She glances in the direction of the room Louis is in. “Good to know he’s fed well.”

“He is, believe me. Just introduced him to zucchini this week.”

“See?” Jay replies. “God bless you.”

“He may be picky, but he's a good sport most of the time.”

“You know, speaking of picky.” Jay leans in across the table again, and places a hand on Harry’s forearm. “When Louis was younger, he used to swear he'd end up with a blonde-haired, blue-eyed man someday. Said nothing else appealed to him.”

Harry laughs loudly. “Oh, _did_ he?”

“He also said he'd ever date someone taller than him.”

“At _his_ height?”

“That's what I said, too,” Jay shrugs. “The reason I bring it up, though, is because...well, my boy is a bit of a planner. He can get stuck in his head sometimes, and think he wants something so much that he misses something better.” Harry nods along. He knows that well by now, so well. “But I think you get him out of his head. That's how I know you're good for him. He didn't overthink you.”

Harry places his hand over Jay’s. “Your son is an incredible human being. You should be so proud.”

“I am, babe,” Jay grins. She cups the right side of his jaw with her palm. “Oh, I am.”

They talk for a while after that, and when Jay stands up to wash the dishes, Harry happily offers to dry. He learns that when he was little, Louis used to love red juice and pretending to read picture books aloud, even the ones that had no words on their pages. His first crush was on a little blonde-haired boy named Lucas in his preschool class. Louis had evidently confessed his love after Lucas had shown Louis that sometimes trees can be coloured orange if you want them to be. “He always loved things that were different,” Jay says with a smile and a nudge of her elbow.

When they’ve finished with the dishes and wandered into the next room, they find Louis seated on the floor, Ernest clinging to his back with his tiny chubby arms linked around his Louis’ neck. Doris is sprawled out on her stomach across Louis’ thighs.

“Well, look at you, big brother,” Harry says with a smile. He glances at Lottie and Fizzy, who are side by side on the sofa, watching the telly. “Mind if I join you?”

The girls happily separate to allow for Harry to settle between them, and as he sinks into the sofa, Louis reaches behind him to tickle Ernest in the ribs, earning a forceful, melodic giggle. Louis leans forward to stop Ernest’s wiggling, and Doris squeals at being squished beneath his chest. Harry’s mouth falls open in laughter. Louis glances up at him, tossing his head to the side to flick his fringe out of his eyes, and flashes him a grin so bright it burns in Harry’s chest.

* * * * *

“So,” Louis whispers. His hands slip under the waistband of Harry’s t-shirt, and he fans his fingers across the curve of Harry’s lower back.

Around them, the night grows heavy. The air hangs low with cool moisture, and the breeze raises goosebumps on Harry’s arms despite the heat of the earlier day. It’s quiet, save for the occasional chirp of a cricket and the symphony of whispers as the breeze rustles through the leaves. The angles of Louis’ face are thrown into shadow by the milky moonlight, and every breath that ghosts Harry’s skin is audible in the velvet air.

“So,” Harry echoes, placing one hand along Louis’ jaw, his thumb smoothing over the buttery skin of Louis’ cheek.

Louis’ eyes glow. In the distance, there is a low wail of car horn. 

“We did it,” Louis murmurs.

Harry leans in to rest his forehead against Louis’. “Yes, we did.”

Every light in the house has gone out by now, and Louis and Harry snuck outside to whisper under the stars. After all the kids had been kissed goodnight, Louis had tiptoed into the spare bedroom and led Harry downstairs with his hand before Harry had time to slip into his shoes, so now the grass is cool beneath the soles of his bare feet. 

Louis’ eyes flicker down to where he’s twisting a single lock of Harry’s hair around his finger. He inhales slowly, then gazes back up at Harry. He gently smooths his thumb over Harry’s bottom lip, his touch so light that Harry’s lip trembles.

“You were so amazing to watch,” Louis whispers, barely above a breath. “You have no idea how much today meant to me.”

“Mmm,” Harry murmurs. He wraps his arms around Louis’ shoulders and tugs him close until his face is buried in Louis’ hair, and he can feel Louis’ warm breath on his chest through the fabric of his t-shirt. “ _You_ were amazing. You’re so good with your sisters.”

Louis presses a kiss to the first bit of Harry’s skin that pokes out of his neckline. “How was tea with my mum?”

“It was really good.” Harry’s fingers dart along Louis’ hairline. His hair is long enough now that it reaches nearly more than halfway down his neck. “She told me about Lucas from preschool,” Harry giggles.

Louis groans and presses his face flat into the centre of Harry’s chest. “Oh no.”

“Oh, yes,” Harry teases, poking a finger into Louis’ side. “She did. Your first love, was he?”

There’s more unintelligible groaning from where Louis’ mouth is still muffled by Harry’s t-shirt.

“I’m just kidding, baby,” Harry says. “Hey, I love you.”

Louis lifts his head to smile at Harry. “I love you very much.”

Harry leans down to press a kiss to Louis’ soft lips, smiles when Louis exhales against him. Their lips whisper together in the moon-soaked night air. 

At one point, Louis pulls away to murmur, “For once, I’m actually excited to go back to tour.”

“Yeah?” Harry hums. “Why is that?”

Louis noses along the curve of Harry’s neck. “Feels like we’re finally getting somewhere.”

Harry sprinkles kisses into feathery copper hair. 

Feels like they’re finally getting somewhere. Nowhere to go but everywhere.

* * * * *

The screams that echo inside the arena are deafening as Harry weaves his way through security personnel and sound equipment to his folding seat beside the catwalk. One fan rushes toward the gate and calls his name to ask for a picture. It feels strange, but he leans forward to flash a peace sign over her shoulder.

Minutes later, the arena is plunged into momentary darkness as the lights are shut off. The first chords of Louis’ opening song begin to pulse from the speakers and the lights go up on the band as the introduction video plays on the screen. Harry can feel every note of the bass that throbs in his chest.

Finally, after the long introduction, a door opens at centre stage and Louis sprints through it until he reaches the centre of the catwalk, and he leaps up onto the platform.

“Good evening, Houston!” Louis cries into his microphone, drawing out each syllable. The crowd is whipped into a frenzy of screams and cheers. “You all look incredible. It’s so good to be back in North America, thank you all for having me. Now, I have one question for you!”

Louis leaps down from the platform and runs back to centre stage. He throws both hands in the air. “Are...you...READY?”

The crowd’s response is deafening, and the band launches into the verse of the opening song. Louis sings, clear and pure, into his microphone as he runs from one end of the stage to another, greeting fans on either side. He sings and dances his way down the catwalk and throws a wave to the fans seated in the balcony sections. 

Three songs in, and the crowd is no less thrilled by Louis, and Louis is no less bouncy as he hurries back to centre stage. He bounds up the glass stairs to the second level of the stage and lifts his microphone to his mouth.

“Houston, you have been absolutely incredible,” Louis begins, slightly out of breath. He approaches the piano as he speaks. “This is the part of the show where we bring things down a bit for a few songs. Now, this next song is one of my favourites.”

Harry crosses his legs in his seat, smoothing his hands over the fabric of his jeans, and smiles up at Louis, now a small figure above him.

“But tonight…” Louis continues, beginning to pace across the second level of the stage. “Tonight I want to dedicate this song to someone special. Someone very, very close to my heart.”

Harry rises slowly from his chair onto his feet, his eyes bugging out slightly.

“Someone who, I hope, will never forget all the little things I love about them. This is for you, wherever you are.” Harry’s heart leaps into his throat as Louis directs his gaze in Harry’s direction. “You make loving fun.”

Louis turns then, and addresses the entire crowd. “This is ‘Little Things’!”

As Louis slides onto the piano bench and the beginning notes of the sweet ballad begin to trickle through the arena as his fingers float over the keys, Harry tightens his fingers into a fist and presses it over his lips, suppressing a smile.

* * * * *

The next morning, Louis rolls over under the heavy white duvet and flattens one palm on Harry’s chest. Fresh July air pours in over the windowsill, crisp in Harry’s nostrils as he inhales deeply.

“Baby, wake up,” Louis whispers. “Look at this.”

Harry mumbles and licks his lips. His right hand is tucked under his head, and he removes it to place it over Louis’. He points and flexes his toes under the duvet. “Look at what?”

“This.” Louis holds his phone up for Harry to see, and Harry notices a headline in bold black letters.

Harry squeezes his eyes shut, rubbing them with his fingers, then opens them again. “What does it say?”

Louis swings one of his legs over both of Harry’s thighs and he props his head up on one elbow. His eyes are soft, a breathtaking sea foam colour in the dusty morning light, and a smile dances in them like a spark. “You have to see for yourself.”

Harry gingerly takes the phone from Louis’ hands and props it up on his chest to read the article Louis has pulled up on the screen.

**DOES LOUIS TOMLINSON HAVE A SECRET LOVER? SINGER DEDICATES BALLAD TO ‘SOMEONE SPECIAL’**

_Louis Tomlinson had a sold-out show last night in Houston, TX after a brief break from his United States ‘Fabulous’ tour._

_And the heartthrob crooner may have revealed an interesting bit of insight into his love life as he celebrated his first night back in North America._

_The romantic 23-year-old dedicated the first love ballad of the night to “someone special,” saying he hopes they “will never forget all the little things I love about them. This is for you, wherever you are. You make loving fun.”_

_Earlier this summer, Tomlinson was rumoured to be involved with model Christen Bergeron. He was seen getting cozy with Christen at a favourite Los Angeles club, and not long after, rumours of a sex tape spread on the internet. However, the tape never surfaced, and after last night, we are left wondering: Was the dedication meant for Christen, or someone else?_

_An even more compelling rumour originated on the social media accounts of Tomlinson’s young teenage fans: a secret romance between Tomlinson and his young wardrobe stylist, Harry Styles (21). The pair appear to be close, but a source close to the singer refused to confirm or deny the nature of the relationship between them._

_For now, we can’t help but notice: Louis has been loving genderless pronouns lately._

_Whoever_ they _are, we wish_ them _every happiness with the stylish British singer._

Harry lowers the phone onto the bed, and turns his head to the side to stare at Louis. His mouth falls open.

“I know, I know, I know,” Louis giggles. He pulls himself up to straddle Harry’s hips and between every word, he covers Harry’s face with kisses. Harry scrunches his nose and laughs, trying to catch Louis’ face between his hands. 

“Louis.”

Louis pulls back and Harry imagines his cheeks probably ache with the force of the smile that bursts over his face. “What?”

“We’re finally getting somewhere.”

Louis cups Harry’s face with both hands and kisses him deeply, forcefully. It’s excitement, it’s peace, it’s a sigh of relief that empties his lungs completely.

“Not somewhere,” Louis murmurs. “Everywhere.”

* * * * *

Louis knows it’s coming.

He just doesn’t know when.

To be fair, Harry hasn’t verbally warned him, but this morning in the shower, Harry’s expert attention to _detail_ was probably a good hint. So all afternoon, Louis has clung to him, desperately touchy as if waiting for Harry to bend him over then and there. When they leave the hotel to head to the venue, Louis’ shoulders visibly drop in disappointment. Because Harry would never, Louis thinks, not in the dressing room.

So, yes, Louis knows it’s coming.

But when Harry has finished selecting Louis’ three outfits for the show, checked his phone for the time, clicked the lock on the door, and circled his arms around Louis from behind to unbutton his jeans, Louis is still surprised.

“Harry,” Louis hisses. “What are you—”

“Shhh.” Harry drags the zipper of Louis’ jeans down and slides them down over his arse. Louis lifts each foot, allowing Harry to slip the jeans off his legs completely. “Turn around.”

“Fuck, Harry,” Louis breathes as Harry begins to make his way down his body. He gently sucks at the skin below Louis’ jaw, and licks a stripe up the column of his throat when Louis throws his head back for easier access. Harry drags his fingertips down the centre of Louis’ chest, barely making contact, and Louis shivers at the sensation. 

Slowly bending at the knees, Harry sinks lower and kisses across Louis’ chest, exhaling hot breaths over his skin. He kisses sideways until he reaches Louis’ right nipple, which he gently flicks with his tongue, feeling it harden. Louis’ breath comes in ragged gasps as Harry sucks his nipple into his mouth.

He kisses and sucks his way to the other side and sucks on his left nipple, harder this time, and Louis shudders under Harry’s hands.

“Oh—my god, Harry,” Louis shivers, his chest heaving. “That feels so—good.” He reaches down to palm himself, but Harry catches his hand to stop him.

“Wait for me.”

He continues his path down Louis’ torso, licking at his stomach and hips, and breathing over the wet skin to drive Louis wild with the combination of sensations. It’s working, it’s working _so well_ , Louis looks ready to come apart under Harry’s tongue.

Finally, Harry places his hand over Louis and gives him a gentle squeeze. “You’re so fucking hard already,” Harry murmurs. “Fucking amazing.”

Louis’ hips twitch forward as he attempts to grind into Harry’s hand. 

Harry chuckles and glances up at Louis through his eyelashes. “You like that?” When Louis nods and swallows, Harry lifts his head to suck a hard kiss to Louis’ lips. “Surprise.” He gestures toward the leather sofa. “Lie down on your back.”

Louis obeys immediately, needy and desperate, and Harry feels drunk on the power it gives him. Louis, who is usually so confident, so in control, is trembling for Harry’s touch, his legs spread wide as he stretches out on the sofa. 

Harry settles between his thighs and bends over him, swirling his tongue over his nipples again. One hand slips between them to rest on Louis’ inner thigh, and Louis arches his back, hungry for friction on his cock. The fingertips of Harry’s other hand trace light circles over Louis’ bicep. Louis’ chest rises and falls at an erratic pace.

Harry kisses down Louis’ torso, skipping over his cock to suck on the skin of his inner thighs. Bruises bloom beneath his lips, forming a path to mark the skin he leaves behind. 

“Fuck— _fuck_ , please, Harry,” Louis gasps.

“Please what?”

“Touch me,” Louis groans. “Put your mouth on me.”

“Mmm.” Harry slides two fingers beneath the waistband of Louis’ pants. “Okay, baby.” He tugs Louis’ pants down and Louis’ cock springs free, landing thick and heavy on his stomach. “Just want to make you feel good,” Harry murmurs, dropping Louis’ pants to the floor. “That’s what this is about.”

Harry bends down until his mouth is a breath away from Louis’ cock. Louis is squirming and panting, his breath falling out in tiny whimpers.

“You want my mouth?”

Two hands tighten so quickly in Harry’s hair that his head is jerked backward and a moan falls from his lips. “Yes, yes, yes, _fuck_ Harry, _yes_ ,” Louis pants.

“Okay,” Harry says. “On your stomach.”

Louis scrambles to flip himself over onto his stomach, and instinctively begins to grind into the smooth leather.

“No, no,” Harry murmurs. He fits his hands around Louis’ hips and lifts him up until his arse is in the air, his legs falling to the side and his cock left untouched and leaking. “You have the most gorgeous arse.” Harry spreads Louis’ arse cheeks with his thumbs and teases his rim with one thumb. “Fucking love it like this.”

“God, Harry,” Louis moans, pressing his arse back into Harry. “Shut the fuck up.”

“What’s so frustrating, baby?” Harry drawls. “What do you want right now?”

“I want you to fucking eat me like you— _oh_.”

Harry flattens his tongue over Louis’ rim and swipes upward, sucking on the pink skin just beside his entrance. A second wide sweep has Louis sputtering and clutching at smooth leather for something to hold onto for purchase. 

“H-Harry, I—”

Harry squeezes the muscle of Louis’ arse cheeks and spreads them as far as he can, and gives another quick gentle lick. Louis shivers violently, and _god_ , Harry could watch this forever. Louis is so gorgeous.

“Can you do one thing for me?” Harry whispers.

“Anything,” Louis gasps.

Harry licks the skin just above Louis’ entrance, then presses a kiss to the centre of his right arse cheek. “Promise me that you’ll tell me when you’re going to come.”

“Promise,” Louis whimpers. “I promise.”

“Okay.” Harry gives Louis’ rim another slow sweep, and Louis moans loudly, lowering his forehead onto his forearm. “Does my mouth feel good baby?”

“Fuck yes,” Louis groans. “Feels— _ah_ , amazing.”

“Wouldn’t it feel good on your cock?”

Louis’ moan rips through him like he’s ready to come apart beneath Harry, so Harry swirls his tongue around Louis’ entrance and then applies enough pressure to slip the tip of his tongue inside.

“Oh—sh-shit, oh my—”

Harry draws back to see his work. Louis’ hole is pink and glistening, and he clenches around the absence of Harry’s tongue. “Baby,” Harry breathes. “Oh, baby.”

“How do I— _fuck_ , how do I taste?” Louis pants. 

Harry sucks once at Louis’ hole with a loud smacking sound. “You are so delicious, fuck, I can't get enough of you.”

“Your tongue is fucking m-magic,” Louis gasps.

Again, Harry pushes his tongue inside Louis’ opening, and Louis tosses his head back, thrusting his hips backward to grind on Harry’s tongue.

“Can I—touch myself—” Louis’ voice comes out shaky and desperate.

Harry pulls away and flattens his tongue over Louis’ rim again, loving the way he clenches beneath him. Then he answers, “Yes, but only if you tell me when you’re close.”

Louis’ is already stroking himself when he promises, “I will, I’ll— _oh_ , I’ll—”

“Baby,” Harry warns. “Tell me.”

Louis is thrusting forward now, fucking his own fist, and his whole body quivers with pleasure. 

He inhales a massive breath, then gasps, “I’m—g-gonna—”

“Stop,” Harry demands. Louis’ hand stutters around his cock, then freezes. “Stop touching yourself.” Louis whimpers loudly, dropping his hand onto the leather sofa and lowering his head. “Turn over, please.”

When Louis is on his back, Harry spreads his legs as far as Louis can manage before he squirms in discomfort, and he begins to trail his fingertips up Louis’ thighs. Louis’ cock is leaking, a pool of precome forming on his stomach as Harry teases between his legs. Harry exhales long, warm breaths over Louis’ balls, then presses on his thighs to keep them from closing around him. Louis is a squirming, whining mess, and only growing louder and wetter. He is so gorgeous it’s making Harry dizzy, and Harry wants to continue to edge him into oblivion.

Harry begins to slowly massage Louis’ balls with his fingers, and he has to reach up with his other hand to stop Louis from desperately touching himself. His cock is furiously red and heavy on his heaving abdomen. 

“You’re so fucking loud, it’s obscene,” Harry says, his voice coming out like a growl.

“Harry, please—”

“How badly do you want my mouth on your cock right now?” Harry murmurs.

“ _Please_ , fucking—p-please, want your mouth, need it,” Louis whimpers.

“I know.” Harry steps back then, and rises from the sofa. Louis is stretched out, legs obscenely wide, gasping. His eyes are dark, pupils blown, and he traces Harry’s movement across the room, need nearly overshadowing the confusion in his gaze. “Just a second, okay?”

Harry fumbles around in his bag until he finds the item he’s searching for. As he walks back toward Louis and settles back between his thighs, he flicks open the lid of the bottle and drizzles a generous amount of lube into the palm of his hand. 

“I’m not going to give you my mouth yet,” Harry says. “But I’ll give you something else instead, for now.”

“God, yes, Harry.”

Harry wraps his lube-slicked hand around Louis’ throbbing cock, and Louis moans loudly, his hips involuntarily twitching upward. Beginning at the base of Louis’ cock, Harry strokes upward until his hand pops off the tip, then repeats the motion. Over and over again, he strokes only upward, in short, staccato motions. When Louis moans, it’s a mixture of pleasure and frustration, like a poetic sentence missing its final word.

He repeats over and over until Louis warns him a second time that he’s close to coming, and when Louis says so, Harry immediately ceases contact. Louis cries out in frustration, biting on the tough skin of his bicep to control himself.

Slowly, Harry continues his teasing ritual a third time, then a fourth. When Harry denies him his fourth orgasm, Louis’ eyes are watering and his bottom lip is swollen and bitten red. His voice is weak and wrecked, but he chokes out, “What time—”

Harry checks his phone. 

“Oh,” he says, feigning surprise. “Shit, I must have lost track of time. You have ten minutes to get on stage.”

Louis’ eyes fly open. “Suck me off, fucking suck me off right now.”

“No time for that baby,” Harry hums, stroking Louis’ cheek. Louis turns toward his hand, attempts to suck on Harry’s fingertips. “Louis,” Harry murmurs. “After, okay? Put your clothes on.”

Louis’ eyes are wide, practically bugging out of his head. 

“Come on, sit up, love.” Harry helps Louis straighten himself on the sofa, and hands him the shirt and jeans for his first outfit. “Put these on.”

“Harry.” Louis grabs a fist full of Harry’s hair and pulls him closer.

“I know,” Harry murmurs, gently untangling Louis’ fingers one by one. “I love you.”

Louis is quiet as he shrugs into his clothing, but he never takes his eyes off of Harry. 

Harry presses the button on his phone to illuminate the screen. “Two minutes,” he warns Louis.

Louis stands up from the sofa, his knees threatening to give out under his weight. He wobbles slightly as he approaches Harry. He cups Harry’s jaw and licks, fierce and needy, into Harry’s mouth. 

“You’ll fuck me,” Louis hisses. “ _After_. Promise me.”

Harry cups Louis’ cock through a layer of fabric. “I will _not_ forget.”

* * * * *

Harry cannot believe he is responsible for the beautiful _disaster_ that begins the moment Louis steps on stage.

He’s more out of breath than usual, even before the sprinting back and forth he usually does. His introduction is brief, his voice loud but shaky. At times, he grinds on his mic stand as he sings, knees bending to allow him to thrust slightly.

Harry watches from a seat beside the catwalk, a hand clapped over his mouth as he watches Louis slowly lose his mind as each song pulses through the arena. During “Little White Lies,” Louis’ scream sounds more like a breathy high-pitched moan, and when thigh chorus of “No Control” reaches its peak, Louis’ hand finds its way down his torso in a long, dragging movement, and squeezes his cock through his jeans.

The camera catches the entire movement, and the screaming crowd erupts to a volume Harry can hardly fathom. 

Liam leans over to scream in Harry’s ear. “What the fuck did you _do_ to him? He’s bloody lost it.”

Harry’s eyes are wide. “Oh my god.”

Louis comes barreling down the catwalk toward the mic stand at the end of the catwalk. He makes eye contact with Harry, and straddles the mic stand between his legs, walking toward the edge of the catwalk with the metal pressed against his crotch. Only the microphone at the top protrudes from between his legs when he reaches the very edge.

Louis bites his lip. Even in the dark arena, Harry can _feel_ the hunger in Louis’ gaze in the pit of his stomach. Maintaining eye contact, Louis takes hold of the microphone and pulls away from his body, dragging the entire length of the mic stand out over his cock.

“ _Oh_ ,” Harry breathes.

“Get out of here,” Liam hisses. “This is getting crazy.”

Louis’ mouth falls open as he slides the end of the mic stand out from between his legs, and Harry thanks his lucky stars that the microphone was nowhere near Louis’ lips, because he _knows_ that face, and he knows the noise he must have just made.

“Get _out_ of here,” Liam yells this time, pushing hard at Harry’s shoulder.

Harry nods and swallows, jumping out of his chair and hurrying past security personnel beside the catwalk to disappear backstage.

* * * * *

When Louis bursts through the dressing room door moments after Harry ears the music end, he slams the door behind him and turns the lock with a click.

“Harry,” Louis growls.

Harry is off the sofa immediately, and they meet halfway in the centre of the room, crashing together in a frenzy of searching hands and hungry mouths.

“What the fuck was that,” Harry hisses into Louis’ mouth.

Louis’ hands slide up the back of Harry’s shirt, clutching at the fabric with white-knuckled fists. “I need you,” Louis moans, lowering one hand to grip Harry’s arse. “To make me.” He pulls their bodies flush together, their cocks grinding together through layers of fabric. “ _Come_.”

With two hands flat on Louis’ chest, Harry pushes him backward until the backs of his legs touch the edge of the sofa, and he falls backward. Harry’s fingers fly over the zipper of Louis’ jeans, dragging them down to his knees. Louis’ cock is painfully hard, and the tip glistens with precome.

Harry sinks onto his knees in front of the sofa and pushes Louis’ legs apart, settling between them to mouth at his balls.

“You were fucking _obscene_ out there,” Harry growls. “I think you love this. I think you were edging _yourself_ since I wasn’t there to do it for you.”

Louis’ eyelids flutter closed and his hips snap upward. Harry fits his hands around Louis’ hips.

“Is that what you were doing?” Harry presses. “Is it?”

Louis is pumping his hips in the air, furiously attempting to make skin-to-skin contact on his cock, and his consistent failure elicits whimpers of frustration. Beads of sweat glisten along his hairline.

“Yes, _fuck_ —yes, that’s what I was—doing.”

“Knew it.” Harry swipes his tongue from Louis’ balls to the base of his cock, and he can tell from the way Louis quivers at the slightest contact that it’s the beginning of the end for him. “You are the most…” Harry licks a stripe up the underside of Louis’ cock, from root to tip. “Amazing thing…” He hovers over Louis, taunting him with his hot breath over his wet tip. “I have ever seen.”

Harry sucks Louis into his mouth, relaxing his throat to take him all the way, sinking down until his nose is pressed firmly to the perfectly groomed downy hair over his crotch. Louis cries out, throwing his head back over the back of the sofa and slapping the cushions on either side of him with his palms.

“Jesus—fucking _Christ_ ,” Louis gasps. Harry pulls off completely with a loud popping sound and smiles up at Louis, whose mouth is red and hanging wide open.

“Will you take your shirt off for me?” Harry murmurs. Before he’s even finished, Louis is tearing the shirt off his body and hurling it across the room. “God, look at you,” Harry whispers. One of his hands travels up Louis’ torso, raising goosebumps along its path. Louis shivers violently. “You are so beautiful. And so fucking _sensitive_.”

Louis pushes his legs wider, and his cock twitches as little high-pitched gasps escape his bitten lips.

Harry takes him in again, his entire length, then slides back off, leaving Louis gasping for a few moments at the hot, wet contact that is still not quite _enough_.

“Can you do one more thing for me?”

“Anything,” Louis says breathlessly.

Harry sucks at the soft skin beside Louis’ cock, savoring the smell of heat, sweat, and need. “Tell me you love me.”

“I do,” Louis gasps. “I love you s-so much.”

Harry lifts the hand that’s resting on Louis’ chest to his mouth, pushing his middle finger between Louis’ lips. Louis takes his finger into his mouth, sucking hard and swirling his tongue around the tip until saliva dribbles down his chin. Harry withdraws his finger and lifts Louis’ hips, pressing the shiny-slick finger to Louis’ opening. His other hand slips into his jeans to palm himself.

As he sucks the tip of Louis’ cock into his mouth, he pushes his finger into Louis’ hole, fucking him deep and slow. The speed of his mouth contrasts with the lazy movements of his finger, as he bobs his head up and down at an increasing pace.

Louis is twitching and panting and crying out and then suddenly, he is silent. Every muscle in his body tenses, and he clenches hard around Harry’s finger. Then, as fast as he froze, he bursts into a thousand tiny pieces beneath Harry’s hands. His back arches, and a gasp catches deep in his throat. Harry pulls off with a wet sound and jerks him through it, and before he finishes two strokes, Louis is sputtering and shooting hot spurts of come into Harry’s fist and over his shirt. 

“Baby, baby, baby,” Harry murmurs. One hand rubs Louis through every tremor, and the other grips his own width, jerking hard and fast.

In a matter of moments, Harry is coming into his hand, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He collapses on top of Louis, his cheek resting on Louis’ quivering stomach. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Louis exhales. 

Louis’ hand nudges Harry’s, and Harry flips it to face palm up. Their fingers weave together, and Harry presses his nose into Louis’ salty sweet skin.

“So good,” Harry whispers. “So good.”

* * * * *

**LOUIS TOMLINSON SHOWS OFF SENSUAL NEW MOVES ON STAGE AT ATLANTA CONCERT**

_Louis Tomlinson, 23, was channeling his inner Beyonce at Atlanta, GA concert last night. No, there were no stripper poles involved, but Tomlinson made do with what he had. The sexy singer got creative with his mic stand, much to the delight of his loyal fans._

_So you’ve seen the video. Which move was your favourite? Was it the sexy crotch grab? Maybe the sensual poses during anthemic banger “Drag Me Down”? How about the raunchy grinding on the catwalk? Whatever your favourite, Tomlinson certainly put on a memorable show last night._

_Fans took to Twitter after the show, reporting having witnessed some interaction between Tomlinson and his fit young wardrobe stylist, Harry Styles, who was watching from the audience. The pair have found favor with a devoted sect of Louis’ fandom, who seem to believe they may be romantically involved. After last night, if what we’ve heard is true, we’re certainly intrigued._

_One thing’s for sure: Louis Tomlinson is no starry-eyed popstar, not any longer. And we’ll be the first to say, we’re loving it._

_Are you a fan of the new moves? Could Harry be ‘Styling’ more than just Louis’ t-shirts? Let us know what you think with a tweet to @Sugarscape._

Harry is wheezing by the time he reaches the end of the last paragraph, and he can barely manage to read the final questions aloud.

Louis squeezes his eyes shut, his face wrinkling as if in excruciating pain. He falls forward and lands face-down on the bed, and his groans are muffled by the duvet. “This is the worst day of my life.”

Harry has to clutch his stomach as he leans over, howling with laughter.

* * * * *

The lobby of the hotel where Simon is staying is splendid, if a bit ostentatious. Every fall of Harry’s heeled boots across the fine marble floors echoes from a thousand pristine surfaces. Crisp white light is showered across the marble from a massive chandelier and scattered in every direction, like diamonds across the sprawling room. Harry glances around him, and, seeing no one, lowers himself onto an embroidered silk couch. He feels like he’s trapped inside a glass of champagne, surrounded on all sides by gold and shimmering bubbles.

A bland old man dressed in a pressed suit calls Harry’s name, and Harry stands, offering a brief wave. The man sweeps his hand in the direction of a long narrow hall beside the reception desk.

“Mr. Cowell will meet you in the conference room, sir. Second one on your left.”

Harry offers a quick smile as he ducks past the desk. “Thank you very much.”

Simon had called that afternoon asking to meet with Harry, and only Harry, at his hotel. Afraid of worrying Louis for no reason, Harry waited until Louis had dozed off for his afternoon nap, then left a note promising to be back shortly, and to wait for him for dinner. Louis still hasn’t texted him, so Harry assumes he must still be asleep.

When Harry reaches the conference room, he lets himself in and finds himself alone with Simon, who sits on the opposite side of a wide mahogany meeting table. 

“Good evening, Mr. Styles,” Simon greets him tersely. “I thank you for coming in on such short notice. Please have a seat.”

When Harry has situated himself in a tall wooden armchair across the table from Simon and poured himself a glass of water, Simon folds his hands and places them on the edge of the table. He clears his throat. “Now, forgive me. I want to make this as pleasant as possible for both of us, but I’m afraid it may be a bit...awkward, which is, I think, unavoidable.”

Oh god, what _now_?

“Can I ask what this is about?” Harry says, tilting his head slightly.

Simon clears his throat a second time and adjusts his jacket on his shoulders. “I wonder if you’ve checked any entertainment news outlets recently.”

“Ah,” Harry nods. He spreads his hand over the mouth of his glass. “The Atlanta show?”

“Precisely.”

“I think I have a fair idea of what you may be prepared to ask.”

Simon leans forward almost imperceptibly and squares his shoulders. “Maybe you ought to explain, then, before I am forced to ask. Because,” he continues, and Harry can see his jaw clench. “I don’t like to find things out. I prefer to be told.”

“Louis and I are…” Harry clears his throat, pressing a fist to his mouth, and shifts in his seat. “In a relationship. But I can assure you that this has not, and will not at any point affect our working relationship.”

Simon blinks, then averts his gaze. He smooths his hands over the lapels of his jacket and folds them in his lap. Finally, he lifts his head and takes a deep breath. “Unfortunately, Mr. Styles, my hands are tied, as Mr. Tomlinson and I have…” Simon closes his eyes as if the words pain him. “An agreement.”

A smile plays at the corners of Harry’s mouth but he wills it to remain hidden. “What agreement is that?”

“Louis was allowed some, um.” Simon pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and pointer finger. “Autonomy. And while I admit I feel deceived, like I said, documents were signed. My hands are tied.”

“So what is the purpose of bringing me here?”

“Well,” Simon says, lifting his hands to place them on the table. “Unlike my situation with Mr. Tomlinson, our agreement, the one between you and I, has not changed, and you are still an accessory of Simco. Therefore, I want to make one thing very, very clear.” He leans forward, both elbows on the table, broadening his chest. “You have seen the articles, the tweets, the blog posts. You know precisely the kind of rumours that are circulating about my client. And you know that you are the source of many of these rumours. So please know.” Simon lowers the pitch of his voice. “If Louis’ next single is anything less than a dramatic success, Simco is out a great deal of money, and I know precisely which branch I will prune first. If you understand my meaning.”

Harry holds Simon’s stare. “Is that a threat?”

Simon lifts his head in an attempt to look down at Harry. His left eyebrow twitches. “Is it clear?”

“Crystal.”

“You’re rather casual, Mr. Styles, for someone whose job is in peril,” Simon observes, leaning back and crossing his arms over his chest. “May I ask why you’re not demonstrating any nervousness?”

“Because,” Harry grins. “I’m not someone who doubts the power of Louis’ natural talent and charisma. And actually, I believe, neither are you, because,” Harry leans forward on his right elbow, and balances his chin in his palm. He shrugs his left shoulder. “You’re the one acting nervous. You can’t control Louis for the time being, so you attempt to lash out at me. But we’re here now, and every time I talk, you lean back from me and cross your arms. You’re defensive. One might even say you are,” Harry lowers the volume of his voice to nearly above a whisper. “Scared.”

“Mr. Styles,” Simon snaps. “I would _watch_ what you say to me. Might I remind you who is in charge here?”

“You don’t have to remind me,” Harry says coolly. “And you can’t forget it either. It’s why you hover anxiously nearby in every city we stop in. It’s why your pals at The Sun publish fabricated articles to drag Louis’ name through the mud. And it’s why you stoop low enough to threatening _me_ when you see that it isn’t working. His single drops soon, and when it does, it is going to shake the music world. And _when_ that happens, you are contractually bound to grant him his freedom.” Harry’s fingers are trembling from the adrenaline, and he feels ready to burst at the seams, isn’t sure he can feel his toes, but can’t stop the words as they keep tumbling out. 

“You and I both know _exactly_ who is in charge here,” Harry says. “And it isn’t you.”

There’s a silence that drags on for centuries, buzzing loudly between them in the rapidly shrinking conference room, and finally Simon hisses in a low, choked voice. 

“Get out.”

As Harry steps out of the room, he can see it, taste it, smell it. Like the first flowers of spring as the frost melts from the trees, the light at the end of the tunnel, the beginning of the beautiful, beautiful end.

* * * * *

**AUGUST**

“Sarah? Hi love, it’s Harry.”

“Oh hello darling! How are you today?” 

Harry is sitting beside the hotel room bed, opposite the side that faces the en suite. His back faces the bed and he whispers into his phone. “Very well, thanks, how are you?”

“Lovely, babe, but why are we whispering?”

Harry lifts his head over the bed just enough to glance at the en suite door. The sink runs for a few seconds, then stops again. The door is cracked a few centimetres.

“I’m hiding from Louis.”

Sarah bursts out laughing on the other line. “I see. What can I do for you?”

Harry leans down and cups a hand over the receiver. “Louis’ next single comes out this Friday, right? And then tour ends in two weeks. I was just wondering—you’re a lovely cook, really, Sarah. Your blood risotto is a taste of heaven, truly. But I was wondering if I might be able to use the kitchen this Friday to, uh, cook Louis dinner.”

“Ah, to celebrate the single?”

“Yeah, basically.”

“Or maybe the fact that you’ve been together two months?”

Harry pauses. “Uh,” he mumbles, placing his hand over his forehead. He lets the silence hang for a moment, then relents. “Yeah...that too.”

Sarah chuckles. There’s a sound of rustling paper in the background as she replies, “Sure, babe, it’s all yours. Let me just make a note so I don’t forget. What were you planning on making?”

“I was thinking fajitas,” Harry whispers.

“Lovely. I’ll make sure you have all the ingredients you need.”

“Okay, great.” From the en suite, Harry hears the closing of a cabinet and the snap of the cap to Louis’ moisturizer. “Okay Sarah, I have to go,” Harry hisses, rushing his words. “Thanks so much, I’ll talk to you soon, okay? Bye.”

Before Sarah can answer, Harry presses the ‘end call’ button and scrambles up from the floor. He jumps onto the bed and snatches his book from the bedside table. He props the book up on his chest, tucks one arm behind his head, and pretends to have been reading the entire time.

* * * * *

“Harry, the single drops in less than an hour and I’m a little nervous, I wanted you to be there for it.”

“I know, I know, love.” Harry drizzles a bit of olive oil in the pan and turns the knob on the stove to light the burner. His phone is pinned between his ear and his shoulder. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t know shopping would take this long. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Louis sighs on the other end, and there’s a short silence. “Okay.”

“Darling?”

“What?”

“I love you.”

Louis exhales an unenthusiastic laugh. “I love you, too. I’m sorry I’m being a pain.”

“You’re not being a pain,” Harry reassures him. “I know this single is a big deal.” He lifts the bowl of chicken and pours it into the pan, moving it around with a spatula to distribute the oil evenly. “I will do my best to be back in time.”

“Okay,” Louis mumbles. “Is Liam with you?”

“Uh, no, he’s...I’m not sure what he’s doing.”

“Oh. You went shopping alone?”

“Um, yeah, I—” Harry clears his throat. With his free hand, he sprinkles a dusting of fajita spices over the sizzling chicken. “It was last minute.”

“Where did you go?”

“Louis, babe, I should go,” Harry says. He’s an absolute shit liar and he still needs to keep it together for a little less than an hour.

“Oh,” Louis replies. “Alright. I’ll be at dinner when you get back, probably.”

“Okay. Dinner is early tonight, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, I don’t know why, but Sarah said she’s serving early so I’m going over there in a bit.”

“Okay, I’ll see you soon then,” Harry says. “I love you.”

“Love you too.”

Harry hangs up the phone and groans. He bloody hates surprises.

* * * * *

When Louis walks into the kitchen, Harry is seated alone at the table, which is spread with a floral tablecloth, two china place settings, and a steaming plate of fajitas. He takes two steps into the room, and freezes. His eyes dart around the room, which is normally bustling with band and crew members, but is now silent.

“Harry, what—?”

Harry grins, tucking his hands in his lap. “Hey.”

Louis’ mouth opens and closes a few times. He points behind him with one thumb. “But you just said—”

Harry giggles. “I never went shopping. I’ve been here the whole time.” He gestures at the plates on the table. “Surprise.”

Louis places both hands over his mouth, his shoulders rising up to his ears as he giggles. “Oh my god.” He hurries over to Harry and bends his knees to lower himself to Harry’s level. He places his palms on Harry’s cheeks. “I am so sorry I was upset with you. This is so…” His eyes scan the table to his right, shaking his head slightly in disbelief. 

Then he turns back to Harry. “Sweetheart.” He presses a long, soft kiss to Harry’s lips, sighing happily through his nose.

Harry kisses Louis’ forehead and stands up from his chair, reaching beside him to pull Louis’ chair out for him. “For the guest of honour,” he says, lifting his arm in a wide, sweeping gesture.

Louis giggles and scrambles into the seat, wiggling slightly from side to side. He leans forward and breathes in deeply through his nose. “It smells delicious.”

Harry places a flour tortilla on Louis’ plate, and piles it high with spoonfuls of chicken and vegetables. He does the same for himself and slides back into his chair.

“What’s this for?” Louis asks around a mouthful of food.

“To celebrate your new single,” Harry explains, then he ducks his head. “And also...we’ve been together for two months.”

Louis grins. “We have, haven’t we?”

Harry nods, taking a bite of his fajita. He wipes the corner of his mouth with a napkin. “Feels like longer.”

Louis hesitates, gazing down at his plate, his fork frozen in mid-air. Then he inhales cautiously. “What happens when we get home?”

“Oh wow,” Harry replies with a nervous laugh. “Are we going to talk about that now?”

“Well,” Louis shrugs. “We could. Or we could just see how things feel. Kind of go with the flow.”

“Ooh, are you okay with that?” Harry teases. “That’s very ‘live-in-the-moment’ of you.”

Louis elbows him in the arm. “Shut up. I can be spontaneous.”

“I’m only teasing,” Harry says. “I think it’s too early to make a permanent decision, though. I know I don’t feel ready to give up my flat.”

“That’s completely okay.” Louis smooths his thumb over Harry’s bottom lip, and Harry catches his hand to press a kiss to the pad of his thumb. “We can absolutely play it by ear. We have so much time.”

Harry lowers Louis’ hand to the table and holds it between both of his. “I want to have a home with you someday, though.”

“I do, too,” Louis nods. “So much.” A grin spreads across his lips, and he lowers his voice to a whisper. “Especially when I know you can cook like this.”

Harry throws his head back and laughs loudly, then he suddenly pats his pockets for his phone. He slides it out and checks the time.

“Shit, we have to eat fast, your single drops in five minutes.”

They stuff their mouths full of chicken and vegetables and count down the seconds to the moment that will make or break everything.

* * * * *

When the single drops at five o’clock, a link is automatically tweeted from Louis’ twitter account and the song title, “Tell Everyone,” is trending on Twitter within thirty seconds. The song skyrockets to the top spot in the iTunes charts within twelve minutes, smashing the previous record of twenty-one minutes.

Louis steps onto stage four hours later and shocks the thousands of fans in the audience by opening show with the new single instead of the usual “Clouds,” and every person in attendance screams the lyrics back at him, every word.

The next day, the tabloids are splashed with Louis’ name:

**“TELL EVERYONE” CONFIRMS LOUIS TOMLINSON’S TOP STATUS**

**LOUIS TOMLINSON WOWS FANS AND MUSIC INDUSTRY ALIKE WITH SUMMER ANTHEM “TELL EVERYONE”**

**NEW LOUIS TOMLINSON SINGLE BOASTS A MATURE INDIE ROCK VIBE, SHATTERS PREVIOUS RECORDS**

Harry and Louis spend all night after the show in bed together, shoulder to shoulder, scrolling through pages and pages of Google search results, copying and pasting links to each and every article they can find into a massive Google document. When they’re convinced they’ve found every one published, they insert the list of hundreds of links into a new email, and in the ‘recipient’ bar, they type Simon Cowell’s email address.

Louis snaps his laptop shut. Harry hands Louis his. Louis presses send. Harry kisses his forehead and catches the single tear that escapes the corner of Louis’ eye with the pad of his thumb.

“Welcome to your new life,” Harry murmurs. “Baby, you made it.”

* * * * *

The next two weeks fly by in a frenzy of news articles, broken records, and unprecedented sales. Simon flies out of the United States two days after the single release date, trailed by articles claiming he is “falling apart.” When Harry comes across the first one on Twitter during a long day of promo interviews, he screenshots it and texts it to Louis, who replies with three full rows of skull emojis.

The last show of Louis’ tour finds them in Miami, Florida. Louis selects the black and white striped jumper Harry gave him for Christmas. Harry pairs it with a pair of white jeans, and desperately tries to suppress the urge to suck Louis off then and there when he sees the way they mold to his thighs.

Harry watches the show from the audience and cries along with the fans when Louis gives his final speech before the last song. At the very end of the song, Louis finds him in the audience, pauses, and blows him a kiss. Fans around him erupt into frenzied screams, and thirty phones are thrust in his face, snapping blurry pictures. Harry doesn’t look. He just watches his boy, and blows a kiss back.

* * * * *

The end of tour party takes place at [Fontainebleau Liv](https://fontainebleau.com/nightlife/miami-beach-nightclubs) in the centre of Miami. The room is illuminated an electric blue colour, and pink and blue lights flash across the domed ceiling. Floor-to-ceiling columns of blinking gold lights frame the room on either side, and a bar made entirely of glass lines the back wall.

Harry is nursing a mojito that glows a strange neon magenta colour in the strobe lights and chatting with Lou Teasdale, Louis’ hairstylist, when Louis approaches and rests a hand on Harry’s hip.

“Hey, babe,” Harry says with a kiss on Louis’ temple. “Lou here was just telling me that she doesn’t know what she’ll do now that we’re heading home and you won’t be forced to wash your hair every day. She made me promise to—”

“To what?” Louis’ breath is hot on Harry’s neck as he leans in. His teeth graze over Harry’s earlobe, and his free hand works its way down to just above the waistband of Harry’s trousers.

“Uh, Lou, it’s been lovely,” Harry chokes. “But I should—go.”

Lou laughs into her drink and rolls her eyes as Louis pulls Harry away toward the dance floor. “You two are impossible,” she calls after them. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!”

On the dance floor, Louis pulls Harry in so close that there is no space between their bodies, and only a breath between their lips. Louis lowers his head and his mouth searches along the line of Harry’s jaw. When he inhales deeply through his nose, Harry giggles and tilts his head to the side.

“That tickles!” Harry squeals.

“You smell so good,” Louis murmurs. “Like...alcohol and…sexy.”

Harry laughs, fanning his fingers through Louis’ hair. “Sexy? What does sexy smell like?”

“You.”

“You’re so adorable right now.”

Louis leans back and furrows his brow. His lower lip sticks out in a pout. “I'm not trying to be adorable. I’m trying to make you horny.”

Harry winds both arms around Louis’ waist. “Kiss me.”

Louis leans in and coaxes Harry’s mouth open with his tongue. 

“Mmm,” Harry hums. “You taste like sugar. What were you drinking?”

Louis presses his forehead against Harry’s and whispers against Harry’s mouth. “Is it weird if I think cosmopolitans taste like you?”

“Oh god,” Harry moans quietly. “That should not make me horny.”

One of Louis’ hands hooks over Harry’s belt and pulls him closer by the front of his trousers. “Take me home.”

“The hotel?”

“No,” Louis says. “ _Home_ home.”

Harry kisses the tip of Louis’ nose. “Tomorrow.”

* * * * *

It’s late at night when the car pulls up to the front gate of Louis’ house. The air that rolls in when Louis kicks the door open is muggy, and it’s perfectly silent save for the hum of crickets in the grass. The moon is blocked in part by the tall trees that line the long drive to the front of the house, and Louis’ profile is an angular silhouette against the car window.

Harry leans across the middle seat and presses a long kiss to Louis’ cheek, placing his palm on the opposite cheek. Louis hums and turns his face toward Harry to catch his lips. 

“Aren’t you coming in?” Louis murmurs.

Harry pauses, rubbing his thumb in a slow circle over the stubble on Louis’ cheek. “You want me to?”

Louis tucks Harry’s hair behind his ear, his gaze flickering between Harry’s eyes, his pupils expanding in the darkness. “Of course I want you to. Don’t know how to sleep without you anymore. Don’t really want to know.”

“I don’t either,” Harry whispers.

“Come on.” Louis offers his hand, and Harry accepts, lacing their fingers together. They slide out of the car and kick the door closed behind them. When they’ve unloaded their bags from the boot of the car, they throw a wave to the driver as he speeds off down the street.

Harry leans into Louis as they walk through the gate. “It’s so quiet.”

The absence of streetlights and car horns and anxious city noises is glaring, and when Louis’ arm brushes Harry’s bare skin, it sends shivers through his whole body.

“Feels almost strange to be coming home for longer than a few days,” Louis says. 

They reach the door and Louis drops his bags onto the ground, digging around in his pocket for his keys. Harry slings one of Louis’ bags over his shoulder.

“Does it tire you out?” Harry asks, careful to keep his voice soft, almost in reverence of the night. “Travelling all the time.”

Louis retrieves his key and inserts it into the door handle, turning it with a soft click. 

“Harry,” Louis murmurs. “It is a privilege to travel the world with you.” He takes one of Harry’s hands and lifts it to his lips, gently kissing his knuckles. “But it is an even greater privilege to have you here with me. Home. When it is all over.”

Harry lifts Louis’ chin and kisses him quietly, gently, lovingly. Louis turns the handle and pushes the door open with a soft creak, and hand-in-hand, they step over the threshold.


	3. Part III: Post-Tour

**PART III - POST-TOUR**

**September**

[Sweet Disposition - The Temper Trap](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0Us2amaAcIQ)

“Oh, how the tides have turned,” Louis mutters as his fingers flutter over Harry’s buttons. “Me dressing you.”

Harry smiles, glancing down at his tuxedo as Louis slips the last button through its hole and swipes his hands over the front to smooth out the creases and folds. He lifts both arms and spins in a quick circle. “How do I look?”

“Sexy,” Louis smirks. He taps his chin with his pointer finger, eyes darting up and down Harry’s body. Then he snaps his fingers. “Ah! I have just the thing.”

He rummages through the items strewn across the top of his dresser and produces a gold Rolex watch. “This would look amazing.”

Harry grins and snatches the watch out of Louis’ palm. As he fastens it around his wrist, he shakes his head. “This is fun, letting you pick out my outfits.”

“I agree,” Louis says. He takes Harry by the shoulders, turning him around to stand side by side, looking in the mirror. Harry wears a Saint Laurent silk floral button-up shirt beneath a black tuxedo jacket with white trim. Louis wears black on black, a double-breasted jacket layered over a solid black shirt. A handkerchief with a floral pattern identical to Harry’s shirt is folded in the breast pocket of his jacket. Louis’ trousers are folded to reveal his triangle tattoo, which peeks out from the top of his Valentino Italian leather shoes.

“Okay, one last thing.” Harry retrieves a small white box from the edge of the bed and removes the lid. Inside are two matching rainbow ribbons. Harry lifts one and carefully pins it to the lapel of Louis’ jacket, then Louis removes the second and does the same for Harry. 

Louis gazes at Harry’s rainbow ribbon, then lifts his head to look at Harry. “This is my favourite thing we’ve ever done.”

Harry chuckles, and reaches up to arrange a few of Louis’ stray hairs into place. “We haven’t even left the house yet.”

Louis shrugs. “I just know it’s my favourite thing.”

* * * * *

A glistening metal tray spread with glittering glasses of gold champagne whizzes past Harry’s head and he reaches up with both hands to select two crystal glasses, one of which he places in front of Louis. The other, he tips back on his lip and swallows in one go.

The banquet hall is decorated with subtly patterned gold wallpaper, and massive chandeliers hang from the ceiling, crystals dripping from solid gold arms like liquid diamonds. Harry and Louis are seated at a table toward the front right corner of the room. The table is spread with a white silk tablecloth, and an ornate candelabra decorates the centre of the table, rose petals scattered around the base. The whole hall gleams a warm auburn colour.

Around the room at more than twenty tables is a wide selection of names and faces, including Elton John, Ellen Degeneres, Nick Grimshaw, and Ian McKellen.

Harry leans in to whisper in Louis’ ear. “You doing okay?”

A waiter approaches from behind and places their first course in front of them, a beetroot and goat cheese salad, topped with a sprinkling of caramelised walnuts. Louis leans back, lifting his hand in a gesture of thanks, then whispers back to Harry. “More than okay. Look at this food.”

Harry smiles and gives Louis a quick rub between the shoulder blades, then picks up his fork to take a bite of his salad. 

“Mmm,” Harry mumbles through a mouthful of vegetables. “This is delicious.”

Louis pops a walnut into his mouth and glances at Harry, eyes widened slightly. “What did you say?”

“I said this is delicious,” Harry repeats. “But—are you picking the walnuts off?” 

“And the cranberries,” Louis replies, defensive.

The young man sitting to the right of Louis clears his throat and takes a sip of his water, then tilts the glass in Louis’ direction. “It’s Louis, right? Louis Tomlinson?”

“Yes,” Louis grins. “And this is my boyfriend, Harry. You are?”

“Lance Bass,” the man replies, offering a hand.

Louis sets his fork down on the table and shakes his hand. “Lovely to meet you. What brings you here tonight?”

“I’m a board member actually, so I helped plan the whole damn thing.”

“Oh, _really_?” Louis says, pressing a hand to his chest. “Well, in that case, thank you so much for having me here tonight.” He waves his hand between himself and Harry. “For having us.”

“Certainly,” Lance nods. “We are so thankful to have your support. I truly mean that.”

Louis smiles, and places his hand on Harry’s knee. “The cause is extremely near and dear to my heart. I couldn’t think of anyone else more deserving.”

“I appreciate that so much.” Lance lifts his napkin to dab at the corners of his mouth. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go give a speech.”

After Lance excuses himself, Harry slaps Louis’ arm and hisses, “Lance _Bass_.”

Louis rubs his hand over his arm. “What was that for? I know who Lance Bass is.”

“Did you know he was on the board? He was probably the one who invited you.”

“No, I didn’t know.”

They’re interrupted by a light tapping on the microphone, followed by a round of applause that erupts from the crowd at their dinner tables.

“Welcome, welcome,” Lance speaks into the microphone, shifting his weight between his feet at the podium. “My name is Lance Bass, and it is my pleasure to welcome you to the 2015 Annual LGBT Switchboard Fundraising Gala Dinner.”

Again, applause echoes around the room, and Lance nods, grinning, as he scans from wall to wall.

“I want to thank you for being here tonight. For those of you who have supported us for many years, and even those who have yet to give financially, I know that each of us shares a common dream: a desire to be a source of information, hope, and support for lesbians, gay men and bisexual and trans people – and anyone considering issues around their sexuality or gender identity. You are here because you believe this dream can become a reality, and I thank you for that. Now.” Lance claps his hands together, then spreads them out to gesture across the banquet hall. “We have an incredible night ahead of us, filled with speakers, live entertainment, fine dining, and ballroom dancing. So please enjoy our thanks, from we at the Switchboard, to you, our generous donors.”

No sooner has everyone finished clapping than a stream of waiters emerges from the swinging door at the back of the room carrying silver trays of the second course, cornish lamb and sweet bread, garnished with leek and yarrow leaf. 

The band assembles on stage, and they begin to play a jazzy, lighthearted rendition of [a Red Garland song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tcWSukwFwj0).

“When you asked me to be your date tonight,” Harry leans in with his lips to Louis’ ear. “I had no idea it was going to be this nice. I feel underdressed.”

“You are physically incapable of looking underdressed,” Louis whispers back. “You make the clothes themselves feel underdressed.” When Harry starts to laugh quietly, Louis adds, “You know, if clothes had feelings, or whatever.”

“You’re so silly,” Harry giggles. He shakes his head and lifts a forkful of meat to his lips, savoring the burst of flavour on his tongue. When he glances back at Louis, his eyes are practically bugging out of his head, and he’s looking at something over Harry’s shoulder.

Harry turns his head in the direction of Louis’ gaze, and immediately sees what’s causing Louis’ terrified expression. Lance is approaching their table, arm in arm with Elton John.

“Oh fuck. This is happening,” Louis breathes.

Harry nudges Louis’ calf with the toe of his shoe, then wipes at the corner of his mouth with his napkin, carefully folding it on the table and standing from his chair. Louis stands, too, and takes a step forward, offering a hand.

“Sir,” he begins, and for a moment Harry is convinced Louis may actually step back into a bow. “It is a privilege.”

Elton shakes his head, and bypasses Louis’ hand, reaching around to clap him on the back. Louis looks momentarily shocked, his eyes frantic over Elton’s shoulder, then Elton speaks and Harry can see Louis slowly relax. It takes a lot, Harry knows, to fluster Louis. But Elton John is more than _a lot_.

“The privilege is _mine_ ,” Elton replies, finishing the hug with a final squeeze, then leaning back with both hands on Louis’ shoulders. “I want to thank you, sir, for all you’ve done.”

Confusion paints Louis’ expression. “All I’ve—?”

“Do not mistake a lack of freedom for a lack of influence, son,” Elton says, his voice firm. “You will never know the effect you have, even in your silence.”

“Sir…” Louis breathes.

Elton’s eyes crinkle as he smiles and turns out sideways, gesturing to Harry. “Will you introduce me?”

“Oh, yes, of course. This is my boyfriend, Harry.”

Elton’s large hand falls flat on Harry’s back and pats a few times. “I do believe you’re the one who’s been styling this fellow’s wardrobe for about a year now, am I right?”

Harry smiles. “You are, that’s true.” He glances at Louis. “I am that lucky.”

“Got a nice body on him, that one,” Elton winks.

“That he does,” Harry chuckles. “That he does.”

They offer Elton a seat between them, and they chat for quite a while over flutes of champagne, pausing only to eat the white chocolate mousse and berries that are placed before them for their dessert course.

When all of the guests have finished their final course and every dish has been cleared, one of the band members approaches the microphone. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much again for being here this evening. We’d like to invite you onto the dance floor now, to enjoy a few dances. This first one is for the lovers out there. Don’t be shy.”

The singer approaches the microphone as the opening notes of [“As Time Goes By”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e07Bpv7uOrM) are sprinkled across the piano keys.

Harry pushes his chair back across the carpet, and cards his fingers through his hair, shifting his part to the opposite side. Rounding Elton’s chair, he leans down to place a hand on his shoulder. “Excuse me.” Harry then offers Louis his hand. “May I have this dance?”

Louis grins and places his hand in Harry’s. “You may.” 

Harry lifts their hands to help Louis out of his chair and leads them in the direction of the dance floor. Once they’ve reached the tiled surface, Harry places Louis’ hand on his shoulder, then loops his arm around Louis’ waist, pulling their bodies close. 

They sway side to side to the lazy rhythm of the song, foreheads pressed together. Louis moves his hand from Harry’s shoulder to the back of his neck, where he winds his curls around his fingers, sending shivers down Harry’s back. Other couples twirl around them, but they’re just wisps of movement in the corner of Harry’s vision. Harry leans down to gently press his lips to Louis’, leaving him a soft, chaste kiss.

They stay on the dance floor after the song ends, mingling and dancing, enjoying the plentiful glasses of champagne served directly into their hands, and the selection of smooth jazz the band plays until the late hours. When the banquet has begun to die down and guests begin to trickle out of the exit doors, Harry and Louis finally make their way back to their table.

Louis hugs Lance first, then Harry, offering their thanks one last time, and promising their support. Then, hand in hand, they make their way to the exit, where their car sits waiting for them.

When they step through the doors and into the cool night air outside, Harry has dropped Louis’ hand, and his vision is scattered by hundreds of bursts of light from the cameras of paparazzi who have spent the night waiting for them. 

“I can picture the headlines tomorrow,” Louis hums as they slide into the back seat of the car. “‘Louis Tomlinson attends LGBT banquet with rumoured lover.’” He slides over next to Harry and rests his head on his shoulder, his fingers tracing Harry’s bicep.

“Mmm,” Harry agrees, lifting his arm to drape it across Louis’ shoulders, pulling him closer. “I personally can’t _wait_ to read that set of words.”

* * * * *

The next morning, Louis comes running into the bedroom moments after rolling out of bed and padding into the kitchen. He has a box of cereal tucked under his arm, and he’s holding his phone in both hands and giggling uncontrollably.

Harry groans and rolls over, planting his face into the pillows. “What’s so funny?” he whines, his voice muffled by the fabric.

“I’m quitting my job as a musician and becoming a journalist,” Louis announces, and the bed shifts as Louis plops his weight down at the foot of the bed. He pokes Harry’s feet, which stick out from the bottom of the duvet. Harry ignores him until he wiggles a finger between Harry’s big toe and his next smaller one, and then he kicks wildly, sending Louis into even more of a laughing fit.

“Fine,” Harry groans, rolling over onto his back. “Why are you becoming a journalist?”

“Specifically a tabloid journalist,” Louis says. He lowers his phone to Harry’s line of vision, pointing to the top of the screen. “Look at this.”

Harry squints and takes the phone from Louis’ hands to read the headline.

**LOUIS TOMLINSON ATTENDS LGBT SWITCHBOARD FUNDRAISING DINNER—WITH RUMOURED BOYFRIEND AS HIS DATE?**

“That shit is almost word-for-word what I predicted last night,” Louis says.

Harry scrolls further down the page. “This is so funny,” he mumbles, his eyes scanning quickly over the article. Then he pauses, widening his eyes. “Wait. We need to fucking frame this.”

“I know,” Louis agrees. “This is crazy.”

“No,” Harry says. He highlights a sentence, then turns the phone around for Louis to read. “Someone get this writer a promotion. They noticed our matching florals.”

* * * * *

“Strong, no sugar, with a splash of milk,” an intern says with a smile, placing a mug of steaming tea in front of Louis’ seat at the conference table.

Louis flashes her his most charming grin. “You got it spot on, thanks, love.”

She nods, then hands Harry a glass of water, beads of cold condensation gathering on the walls of the glass. “And just water for you.”

“Perfect,” Harry smiles. “Thanks so much. That’s a beautiful shirt you’re wearing. You’ve got a good eye.”

“Oh, this?” the intern stutters, glancing down as she runs her hands along the seam of her silk button-down shirt. “Oh, I’ve had this one forever.” Her cheeks blush a deep red under Harry’s attention.

The door clicks open, and a woman steps in, her heels tapping on the tile floor as she approaches Harry and Louis. She is dressed in a fitted black dress with a royal blue blazer buttoned over top. Her black heels elevate her enough that she looks down on both men as she shakes their hands, her grip firm and authoritative. Despite her dainty figure and innocent thick braid that falls down her back, her presence is so huge that it commands immediate respect. She tucks her black file folder beneath her arm as she shakes both of their hands.

“Lovely to finally meet you both in person,” she says with a smile. “Please, have a seat.”

Harry and Louis lower themselves back onto their chairs, and Harry shuffles his feet under the table.

“Thank you so much, Ms. King, for being so accommodating. You've been incredibly generous to us,” Louis says. 

“Please call me Nina,” the woman replies, tucking a stray strand of blonde hair behind her ear. The intern places a mug of steaming liquid in front of her, then skirts out of the room. “You have no idea how pleased we are to be taking you on as a new client, Mr. Tomlinson,” Nina continues. “I understand your last publicity team was a bit, shall we say…” She folds her hands under her chin, and shrugs one shoulder. “Incompetent.”

Louis chuckles, nodding. “I'm afraid you're not far off base. It's refreshing to have a new set of hands.”

“I'm sure.” Nina flips her file folder open, shuffling through a short stack of papers. She selects one, and places it on the table, clicking the tip of her pen. “I'd like to get a sense for what your priorities are at this point in time, so that I can better develop some concrete steps. Harry, I understand this affects you equally in many ways, so please,” she says, leaning toward him. “Feel free to add whenever you see fit.”

Harry nods. “Thanks so much.”

Louis glances from Harry to Nina, and shifts further up in his chair, turning his mug between both palms. He leans forward with both elbows on the table. “I guess...well, I was referred to your firm because you're quite well-known for handling LGBT clients extremely well. And I admit,” Louis explains, “I'm not familiar with all the proper business terminology, so at the risk of sounding quite silly, I'll explain my primary goal in the best way I can.” He leans back and lifts his arms to his sides in an exaggerated shrugging motion. “I just want to come out. And soon.”

“Oh no, please, there's no need to feel silly,” Nina reassures him. She pauses to scribble a few words into her paper, then stacks her arms on the table. “I hear that, and I take that very seriously. I've done extensive inventory of the current situation and I'll be quite honest with you, Mr. Tomlinson. There's not too much work yet to be done.”

Louis tilts his head to the side. “There's not?”

“No, there's not.” Nina smiles, glancing back and forth between Louis and Harry. “You have done quite a good job on your own. Even in spite of your previous team.”

Louis exhales loudly. “That's encouraging to hear.”

“Have you handled a coming out of this caliber before?” Harry asks.

“I'll be honest,” Nina answers. “Not of this caliber, no. But I have handled many coming outs. Planned them from start to finish, approved the articles, managed what little backlash there may have been. And while none of my previous clients have achieved quite the level of your fame, Louis, none of their sexualities had already been so successfully seeded at the start of our working relationship. For that reason,” she explains, “I feel quite confident.”

“And we would come out as a couple,” Harry clarifies. “Not alone.”

Nina nods. “Absolutely. Without a doubt.”

“So…” Louis begins. He glances down at his hands in his lap, rolling the sleeves of his shirt between his thumbs. Then he coughs into his fist. “How, uh…how soon could this happen?”

“Well,” Nina says, flipping through her papers to pull out what looks like a schedule. “I’m aware that you're releasing an album the last week of November. That leaves us about nine weeks until then. We like to work in three week cycles in terms of publicity, so actually, the timing is rather fortuitous. How does the week after album release sound?”

Louis’ mouth falls open, and he claps a hand over it.

Harry rests a hand on Louis’ knee under the table. “So the first week in December?”

Nina nods. “Exactly. Looks to me like that would be...the fifth of December.”

“That's...wow,” Louis exhales.

“Now, I would need to give you some detailed guidelines in terms of what can and cannot happen during those nine weeks,” Nina explains. She folds her hands and places them over her papers, and glances between Louis and Harry. “What I mean by that is, there may be a week when I ask you not to be seen under any circumstances. This would, of course, be temporary.” She pauses to allow her words to sink in. “Is that okay with you?”

Louis nods quickly. “Yeah—I mean, it's fine with me, what's a few more weeks?” He covers Harry’s hand on his knee with his own. “Harry?”

Harry gives Louis’ knee a squeeze. “You know I'll do anything I need to.”

“Brilliant,” Nina grins. 

“So, December fifth, then?” Louis asks.

Nina snaps her file folder shut on the table. “December fifth is the day.”

* * * * *

**October**

[Hello, You Beautiful Thing - Jason Mraz](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0wGVG7sZpPA)

The week after their first meeting with Nina King is supposed to be a quiet week. “No public outings,” she had instructed them. “And avoid social media as much as you can, just to be safe.” Week one is meant to serve as a sort of litmus test. The goal is to see what the public and fan perceptions are, without the intervention of Louis and Harry themselves. See if the chatter continues, even in the absence of any sort of public interaction between them.

Louis is happy for the excuse to lay low, and their days follow a pleasantly lazy rhythm. They consider spending some time at Harry’s flat, but now that Harry has had a taste of freedom in the form of full-time access to Louis’ massive kitchen with marble countertops, he insists that really, he’s fine, he’d rather stay here. 

On Monday, when Louis wanders, yawning, into the kitchen, Harry has removed every dish, pan, and utensil and spread everything out across the floor. He’s on his hands and knees in front of the refrigerator, fishing underneath with the end of the broom to retrieve what utensils he can find.

“What in the _world_ are you doing now?” Louis chuckles, stepping over an assortment of frying pans to reach the cabinet over the oven. As he stretches, the hem of his t-shirt rides up, revealing the smooth tanned skin of his stomach. 

“I’m sorting,” Harry replies, dragging the broom out over the tile floor along with three forks and a spoon. He lifts the spoon, and a wad of dust and hair clings to the end. “And cleaning.”

Louis selects a box of honey nut cheerios from the cabinet and pops the top open. “Bowls?”

“Pretty sure they’re over there, by the cups. Do you see the stacks?”

“Ah, I see,” Louis says. He takes a single ceramic bowl from its pile on the floor and places it on the work surface, the cheerios making little tinkling sounds as they hit the bottom of the bowl.

Harry rests the broom against the wall beside the refrigerator and pulls the door open to grab the carton of milk. “Here, babe.” He tosses the carton to Louis, who snatches it out of the air and pops the top open.

“Thank you.” Turning around with his back to the cabinets, he rests both hands on the work surface and presses himself up until he’s seated on top. He crosses his legs and balances his cereal bowl on his knee, oblivious to the milk that drips into his lap as his spoon travels from his bowl to his mouth and back again. “So remind me,” he says with a smirk. “Why are you destroying my kitchen?”

“I’m not _destroying_ anything,” Harry sighs, plucking as many spoons as he can find from a pile of assorted utensils and dropping them into the proper compartment in Louis’ silverware organiser. “I’m undoing damage that has already been done, to be quite honest.”

Louis snorts. “Really, how _did_ I survive without sorting my forks and knives?” He pats his stomach. “Nearly wasting away.”

Harry finishes the spoons and moves on to the forks. “Every time I cook a meal, which,” he says, leaning over the work surface to point a fork at Louis. “by the way, is multiple times a _day_ , I have to open random drawers and hope for the best. Organisation is not of the devil, despite what you might think.”

Louis chuckles and lifts the bowl to his lips, slurping the extra milk from the bottom of the bowl, then jumps down to the floor to place the bowl in the sink. “What if I like the thrill of the unknown?” He turns the tap on and rinses the bowl clean, setting it to dry on a towel.

“What if I disagreed and said that you’re just lazy?” Harry smirks, sliding the silverware organiser into the drawer and pushing the drawer closed with his hip.

“And proud!” Louis cries, slipping in his socked feet as he scurries out of the kitchen.

Harry finishes replacing all the dishes and utensils by lunchtime, and he calls Louis in to give him a tour of his newly renovated cabinets.

“Consider it a facelift,” Harry says. He hurries around the room, flinging open drawers and cabinets, explaining the contents of each. When he’s finished, Louis spins him around to lean against the refrigerator and he slots himself between Harry’s legs.

“I’m happy you’re happy,” Louis grins, kissing the tip of Harry’s nose. “What’s mine is yours.”

The rest of the week rises and falls like the rhythm of lazy early morning breaths. Louis wakes Harry early in the morning for a run around the neighborhood, and Harry whines the entire time, always trailing three steps behind Louis. He may be a slow runner, sure, but he also loves a good view in the early morning.

When they burst through Louis’ front door half an hour later, red in the face and gasping for breath, they stumble into the bathroom, shedding their sweaty clothes as they go. Harry turns the knob on in the shower, and as steam fills the room, Louis’ mouth searches Harry’s throat, mumbling against Harry’s flushed skin about how sexy he smells when he’s sweaty. They fuck, hot and slippery and desperate, in the shower, sweat and water trickling from their skin and swirling down the drain.

After their post-run shower sex, Louis twirls around the kitchen in a towel, using a banana for a microphone while Harry makes breakfast for two. Some mornings he prepares a full English breakfast, and other mornings when they’re craving something sweet, he flips a batch of banana chocolate chip pancakes.

One morning, after Louis has belted out Beyonce and Sinatra and everything in between, they elect to eat their pancakes on the sofa in front of the telly. As Harry pulls two mugs from the cabinet and prepares a fresh pot of coffee, Louis settles onto the sofa with a blanket spread across the lap, flipping through the channels. From the kitchen, Harry can hear little bits of sound from each channel that Louis lingers on.

“Hey, wait,” Harry says as he steps into the living room holding two mugs of steaming coffee. “Go back to that one, I heard your name.”

“What, mine?” Louis asks, flipping back to the previous channel. Two female anchors stand in front of a large screen displaying a pap shot of Harry and Louis from the Switchboard Gala Dinner. 

“I love the double breasted jacket he wore,” one of the anchors is saying, flipping her long silky ponytail over her shoulder to point at Louis’ torso on the screen. “Looks great on him.”

“Told you you looked sexy,” Harry grins, sinking onto the sofa beside Louis, handing him his coffee mug with a kiss.

Louis hums, exhaling softly into the kiss, his teeth clumsy as he smiles against Harry’s lips.

“You know what else would look great on Louis Tomlinson?” the second anchor says. Louis leans back with his eyebrows furrowed and glances at the telly. The anchor tosses an exaggerated wink to the camera and gestures at Harry in the photo. “Him.”

Harry grunts and lifts one eyebrow, offering Louis a quizzical look. Louis returns the look, followed by an eye roll.

“Do you think the rumours about them are true?” the first anchor asks. “They sure are out and about quite a bit.”

“Maybe. Didn't Louis date Christen Bergeron this summer?”

“He did, but I must say,” the first anchor says, studying the photo on the screen. “These two look a good bit cozier than Lousten ever did.”

Louis snorts loudly. “Lousten?”

Harry sighs and reaches for the remote control that's balanced on Louis’ thigh. “Let's change the channel. This is stupid.”

“No,” Louis protests, snatching the remote out of Harry’s reach. “This is our experiment, isn’t it? See what people are saying?”

“Yeah, but they're being rude,” Harry sulks, dropping his chin into his palm.

Louis drapes an arm around Harry’s shoulders and pulls him in, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “This is the best coffee you've ever made, babe.”

Harry chuckles. “Thanks.” He brings an arm around to wrap it around Louis’ waist, looking back up at the telly.

“If it's true, and they really are dating, it's not going to last, that much I know for sure.”

Louis snorts again. “Is that so?” he mumbles.

“I do love a nasty scandal. Louis Tomlinson dating someone who _works_ for him?” The second anchor rubs her palms together, pursing her painted lips. “That could get interesting.”

Wait—a _scandal_? Harry doesn't think he or Louis ever _once_ thought that could be the perception. 

“We can turn this off,” Harry says, quieter this time. He looks up at Louis, whose eyes are glued to the screen, his expression unreadable. “Louis?”

“It's okay,” Louis mumbles.

“I don't know, Monica,” the first anchor says, her voice piercing. “I’m thinking the scandal is more Harry’s. It's an age-old classic, the ‘screwing the boss’ scenario. Makes you wonder what he's getting out of it, if there's any truth to the rumours.”

At the mention of Harry’s name, Louis’ body goes tense. Harry can see his jaw clench.

“Louis,” Harry says.

The hand that's draped over Harry’s shoulder is twisted into a tight fist. “Did they just—”

“Or who he shagged to get where he is,” the second anchor adds. “Can't be hard for him, with looks like his.”

“Look at those lips,” the first anchor chirps. “Think he'd tell us what colour he uses?”

“Who knows where those lips have been, though,” the second anchor says with an exaggerated gesture toward the camera, and both women burst into laughter.

“What the _fuck_ —” Louis hisses, voice low, punctuating every syllable. “—did they just say?”

Harry leans far over Louis’ lap to retrieve the remote control. “They're just trying to make a joke. Just turn—just turn it off.” He strains as he reaches to press the power button, cutting the screen to black. “It's okay,” Harry whispers, kissing Louis’ cheek softly. “I'm fine. They're just trying to be controversial.”

“Well I'm not fine,” Louis replies, his voice sharp with anger. He pushes Harry away and stands up from the couch, begins to pace back and forth across the living room. “What they said was absolutely _horrid_.”

“Sweetheart, it's _fine_ ,” Harry pleads, reaching out to Louis. “It's okay, just—”

“It’s _not_ , Harry,” Louis yells. “I know you want to believe that the world is all roses and sunshine and that no one ever means the nasty things they say, but guess what?” Louis lifts his arms, then drops them back to his sides. “It's just not fucking true.”

Louis’ words cut Harry in a thousand different places, and he shrinks back on the sofa, crossing his arms over his torso in an unconscious motion of self-defense. He sniffs and drops his gaze to his lap. “I don't feel that way at all. I’m not a child.”

“Then why are you giving them the benefit of the doubt?” Louis throws his arm in the direction of the telly. Harry has seen Louis angry several times before, but never angry with him, never ever with him. Harry feels a lump the size of a marble in his throat.

“They were probably just following a script,” Harry says, his voice weak. “That's not what the public is saying. It's not what your fans think.”

“Yeah, well,” Louis says dismissively. “That was before that segment aired. If they didn't think it before, they will now.”

“Why do you have to be so _negative_ about it? Your fans think better of you than _that_.” Harry swallows and looks away because watching Louis like this is hurting his head. “Christ, give them a little credit.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry sees Louis stop pacing, then he drops his shoulders. He releases a long, heavy sigh. “You're right.”

Harry can't think of anything to say, so he just continues to look away, afraid of saying something else that will be all wrong.

“Harry.” Louis lowers his voice to barely above a whisper. “Harry, please look at me.”

Harry lifts his head, and Louis lowers himself to his knees in front of the sofa, placing his hands on the outside of Harry’s calves. 

“I'm sorry.”

Harry caresses the side of Louis’ face with the backs of his fingers, and Louis closes his eyes and leans into it. 

“It's okay.”

“No, it's not okay,” Louis says softly. “I shouldn't have taken my frustration out on you. I wish I could keep a positive perspective like you do.”

“Well, then let me do it for both of us,” Harry says, smoothing his thumb over Louis’ left eyebrow. “Who cares what some dumb entertainment news anchors have to say?”

Louis hangs his head and breathes a heavy sigh. “I know. I know. I just—didn't you _hear_ them?”

Harry digs his phone out of his pocket and types his passcode in with one hand. He swipes through his apps and taps once on the Tumblr icon. Turning the screen to face Louis, he scrolls through his dashboard, which is brimming with messages of simultaneous disgust at the remarks that were made and support for Harry and Louis.

“I did,” Harry says. “But don't you hear _them_?”

Eyes wide, Louis takes the phone from Harry’s hands and scrolls through post after post. “My fans,” Louis breathes. “How are they so…” He trails off then, with a slow shake of his head.

“Because they love you,” Harry answers. “And I love you.”

Louis sets Harry’s phone on the sofa cushion beside Harry and then lifts himself onto the sofa. Taking Harry’s hands in his, Louis makes piercing eye contact. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course,” Harry nods.

“Would you ever… _consider_ ,” Louis begins slowly. “Possibly working for someone else at some point? I’m just—I worry that tonight won't be the last time we hear shit like that.”

Harry squeezes Louis’ hands. “Of course I'd consider it.”

“You would?” Louis exhales a long sigh of relief. “I'm so glad to hear that.”

“But…” Harry hesitates. “Would that mean I couldn't tour with you?”

Louis’ shoulders sink. “I...maybe. I don't know.”

“Hey,” Harry murmurs. “We’ll figure it out, okay?” He places his fingers under Louis’ chin and gently lifts his head up. “I'm all in this. Are you?”

Louis smiles, his glassy sea storm eyes softening as he replies. “I'm all in, love.”

* * * * *

**November**

[God Only Knows - She & Him](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d6oo1fSv6DY)

November drifts in on a light, brisk breeze. It’s not the kind of cold that bites at your nose when you step outside in the morning into the dewy air, not yet, but with the bursts of flame-coloured leaves on the trees, it hangs in the air like a layer of frost: winter is not far behind. Scarlet and gold leaves cover the walkways and roads like a gilded carpet, crunching underfoot in the still autumn air.

Harry and Louis spread a second duvet over their bed and set two pairs of matching slippers side by side at the foot of the bed. Instead of getting up to make coffee in the morning in the chilly kitchen, Harry sets the coffee-maker on a timer, and when he opens the bedroom door and steps into the hallway in fuzzy slippered feet, the house already smells like fresh coffee and frosty air.

Harry’s flat is mostly empty by now, his drawers and closets in particular. The same furniture lines the rooms and his collection of photographs and paintings still hangs on the walls, but little by little, most of his clothing has migrated in bagfuls to Louis’ place, where it is folded and hung beside Louis’ jumpers and jeans. The grocery list that hangs by a magnet on the fridge now contains scribbles of Harry’s favourite coffee creamer and yoghurt, even though Louis turns his nose up at them, and his favourite crisps stay stocked in the cabinets.

And although Harry feels like he’s answered the question a thousand times in a thousand different ways, it has taken until his second-to-last bite of dessert for Louis to finally ask it.

It’s a fancy French restaurant in downtown London, and it’s decorated to a romantic secret garden theme. The ceiling is nearly invisible beneath a layer of vines and blossoms, and a single candle stands on the centre of the table between them, framed by a ring of beautiful pink and red peonies. 

Louis lifts a spoonful of burnt honey ice cream with armagnac jelly to his mouth, then sets his spoon down beside his bowl, wiping at his lips with his napkin.

Harry giggles across the table, glancing at Louis from over the rim of his wine glass. As red wine swirls around his mouth, Harry furrows his eyebrows, mimicking Louis’ pensive expression. He sets his glass back down on the table. “So serious,” he teases.

“Harry,” Louis says, his voice low, as he stares down at the ice cream that’s slowly melting in his bowl. “I…” He looks up at Harry, then, and sighs. “I’m a massive shit, is what I am.” He exhales a quiet laugh and rolls his eyes, rubbing his palms together in his lap.

When Harry inhales to reply, Louis holds up a single finger. “Wait—I can do this.” He closes his eyes, his shoulders lifting as he drags a long breath through his nose. Then, he releases the breath all at once. “I was wondering—well, more than wondering. _Hoping_. Or, well.” He wrinkles his nose. “Sorry, I’m shit at—fuck. Harry, I want to ask you to move in with me.”

Harry had pictured this moment probably a thousand times over the past year, always hoping for it, dreaming it might come. He pictured tears, a fluttering heart, maybe even paralyzing nerves. What he didn’t picture, is _this_. This feeling of...completion. Like when Louis uttered the words, a final piece in Harry’s chest popped into place with an audible snap.

He flattens his hand over his chest. “Yes.”

Louis’ eyes widen. “Yes?”

“Yes,” Harry grins, nodding urgently.

“Don’t you—” Louis waves his hands in the space between them, fumbling for words. “You don’t want to think about it, or figure out, you know, budgets, or—”

Harry giggles. “Shhh.” He reaches for Louis’ hands, catching them between his palms to hold them still. He notices that they’re trembling ever so slightly. “No, I don’t have to think about it. It makes sense, doesn’t it? I practically live at yours anyway.”

“That’s—yeah, that’s true,” Louis agrees. “I don’t know. You don’t think it’s too soon?”

“I don’t think so, no,” Harry answers, shaking his head. “We shared a room most of tour, even before we started dating. We’ve essentially lived together since February, it just hasn’t been official on paper.”

Louis laughs, and lowers his hands to his lap, smoothing them across his thighs. “That’s true.”

“Are you thinking you want me to move into your house, or did you want to find somewhere new?”

“Actually, I wanted to choose a place together. We don’t know what will happen with your job yet, but I’d really like to have a place to call our own, especially with the travelling we do.”

Harry folds his hands under his chin and smiles at Louis. “I think that’s a wonderful idea. Can you imagine? Bills with both of our names on them?”

Louis groans and places his hands over his eyes. “You’re losing me, Harry Styles. No money talk at the dinner table.”

Harry giggles. “You were so nervous to ask.”

“Well, I don’t know,” Louis whines. “We’ve only been together since June, I didn’t know what you’d think about moving so quickly.”

“Hmm. Remind me,” Harry muses, leaning forward on his elbows. “How long did it take for us to admit we were more than just friends pretty much the _entire_ time we knew each other?”

Louis’ shoulders shake as he laughs. “A bloody long time.”

“Well, there you go, then,” Harry says. “We can move in together quickly, and it would still be the only fast thing we’ve ever done.”

“You’re right, you’re right,” Louis chuckles.

“I know you said no money talk at the table, but I have something you might like to hear.”

Louis leans back in his chair and rests his hands, one on top of the other, on his stomach. “Let’s have it, then.”

“So, I called Janet Jackson.” Harry twirls his wine glass on its base, the dark red liquid sloshing up the sides. He glances up through his eyelashes at Louis with a sideways grin. “And...she may or may not have...hired me?”

“What?” Louis bolts upright. “Harry, are you serious?”

Harry grins as he nods. “I’m serious. She needs someone this season on The Voice.”

“When does that run?”

“That’s the best part,” Harry explains. “The show runs once a year, from—get this—September to February.”

Louis leans forward and slams both hands on the table, splashing a bit of water out of the top of his glass of water. “Those are the exact months I’m off tour.”

“The _exact_ months,” Harry replies. “I’d be off the rest of the year, free to join you.”

“Oh my _god_ ,” Louis cries. “Oh my god! I could shit myself right here, I could literally—”

At the same time, Louis and Harry catch a dirty stare from an elderly woman seated alone at the next table over, and Louis cuts himself off, both of them dissolving into a fit of giggles.

“Liam can take over for me,” Harry explains through laughter. “He’s ready, I have no doubt about that. I’ll start with Janet as soon as possible.”

Louis claps his hand over his mouth to try to dissolve his giggles. 

Images are already spinning through Harry’s head. Designer platform heels, build-it-yourself furniture that takes twice as long to put together with Louis’ stubborn refusal to read directions, dresses in bold colours and patterns, living room walls painted the colour of Louis’ eyes.

* * * * *

It’s still early in the evening when everyone arrives at Harry’s flat. Louis sips a beer, balanced on one of the tall counter stools he’s dragged from the kitchen to the centre of the living room, and Harry sits cross-legged on the floor. He fusses with the roll of packing tape, swearing as strands of his hair get caught at the ends.

“Babe, if you need a hand, I really can, you know,” Louis shrugs. “Do something.” He balances the glass rim of his beer bottle on his bottom lip and gives Harry a sideways glance as he tosses back another gulp. 

Harry sighs dramatically, dropping the tape into his lap and pushing his hand furiously through his tangled hair. “It’s too fucking sticky.”

“It’s tape, love,” Louis chuckles. “Do you want some help?”

“No, it’s fine,” Harry huffs, leaning back against the arm of the sofa and giving the cardboard box full of his CDs a good kick across the carpet. “Totally fine.”

Right on time, the door is thrown open and Liam, Sophia, and Niall burst into the living room along with a small gust of cool air from the chilly hall.

Niall lets out a low whistle. “Shit. Looks different in here.”

“No shit,” Harry replies. The furniture has all been pushed to one side of the living room, and only the sofa remains in its intended place. Everyone dodges dining room chair legs as they make their way over to Harry and Louis.

Liam dangles a plastic bag from his hand. “Alcohol, anyone?”

Harry tosses the roll of packing tape across the room and stretches out a hand, into which Liam immediately places a full can of beer. 

An hour later, and they’re attempting to move a sofa out of the living room, down a flight of stairs, and into the moving van. So far, they haven’t even made it out the door. And every one of them is embarrassingly drunk.

“Niall, pick up your side a little—” Harry instructs, then his own side slips out of his hands and lands with a thud on the floor. “Fuck.”

Niall cackles and drops his end of the couch. He tosses his head back in laughter, forgetting that he’s stood in the doorway, and bangs his head full-force on the wooden doorframe. “Bloody— _Christ_ , that hurt,” he swears loudly, cradling the back of his head with his hands.

“I give you an A for effort!” Sophia cries from outside in the hall, where she’s stationed to provide verbal directions.

“Go again, go again,” Harry says. “Niall, just be careful when you pick—”

“I’m concussed!” Niall cries, squinting his eyes and flinging his arms every direction.

“You’re not—oh my god, just—go lie down, I don’t know,” Harry stumbles over his words. “Take a nap. Shut up.”

“Harry!” Liam screams from somewhere in the kitchen. “Why the _fuck_ do you have—” he trails off for a bit of unintelligible mumbling, then continues. “—nineteen different knives?”

“ _You_ shut up,” Niall protests. “I’m strong as—look! Look at me.” He begins to move his end of the sofa up and down, pumping it as if raising and lowering a barbell.

“Babe, can you—here,” Harry gestures to a roll of bubble wrap lying in the centre of the living room floor. “Can you bring that to Liam?”

“Sure,” Louis nods. He scrambles up from his seated position on the floor and then bends over to swipe the bubble wrap, but all the quick movement throws him off balance and he tumbles clumsily sideways, landing with a loud thud on the floor. “Fuck.”

Niall bursts into laughter, tumbling forward onto the sofa, which is now firmly lodged in the doorway with no sign of movement for the foreseeable future. He curls into a ball on the cushions, his whole body shaking as he howls.

“No offense to any of you,” Sophia says, slowly walking toward the sofa and looking down at Niall from above. “But the planning for this was really rather shit.”

Louis is still lying on the floor in the exact same position he was in when he fell, and the bubble wrap has not made it into the kitchen. A great crashing sound comes from the kitchen, metallic sounds of utensils falling with a clatter onto the tile floor, followed by a high-pitched squeak.

“All good!” Liam calls. “Don’t come in! It’s fine though!”

“Niall,” Harry says.

“Did you stab yourself?” Louis lifts his head to yell at Liam.

“Niall,” Harry says again.

“I don’t think so!” Liam yells back.

“Niall could you get the fuck off my couch? Today?”

Louis cackles loudly. “What the fuck do you mean you don’t _think_ so?”

“Niall get up you massive _twat_!” Harry yells as loud as he can.

Every person in the flat freezes, and Harry hears something else fall to the floor in the kitchen. Sophia’s mouth opens and closes like a fish, and Niall cuts off his laughter, his face the colour of a ripe plum.

It’s Louis who speaks first.

“You’re sexy when you’re angry.”

All of the anger drains out through the holes in Harry’s socks and he lowers himself to the floor beside the sofa, lifting his arms in a gesture of defeat. “Can anyone tell me why we thought moving furniture drunk would be effective in any way?”

Liam’s head peers around the doorway to the kitchen, his hair mussed up and a spoon tucked behind his ear. “It’s fucking hilarious though.”

Louis crawls across the living room on hands and knees and tucks himself in beside Harry. He peers up at Harry, his bottom lip stuck out. “Do you still want to move in with me?”

Harry stares back at Louis, then bursts into laughter, tossing his heavy arms around Louis and pulling him in against his chest. They giggle together, their bodies shaking to the same hilarious rhythm. 

“Of course I do,” Harry gasps between giggles. “Fuck sofas, let’s live in the woods.”

“Get out of my way,” Sophia demands, hands on her hips. “You too, Niall.” 

Harry and Louis scoot across the floor, and Niall goes tumbling off sideways. Sophia braces herself against the walls on either side of her and gives the sofa three good kicks. On the first two it barely budges, but the third kick dislodges it, and she pushes it back into the flat with her back turned, propelling herself with her feet.

“There,” she says when she’s finished, pushing the door closed behind her. “We’ll go again in the morning when we’re sober.”

Liam is gaping at her from across the room, and Harry hopes to god he did not just see him swipe at a trail of saliva with the back of his hand. 

“ _That_ was hot,” Liam gapes.

They all essentially sleep wherever they lay their heads that night, and although they wake up the next morning with sore muscles and pounding headaches, the cardboard boxes somehow find their way into the moving van and all four men hoist the sofa up on the shoulders for the walk from the door to the van, Sophia sprawled out on top. 

When everything has been tossed inside the van and Harry slams the door closed, Louis slides his palms together and nods his head toward the van. A smile slowly spreads over his face. “So, where to next?”

Harry grins, looping his arms around Louis’ waist. “Everywhere.”

* * * * *

[All For You - Janet Jackson](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g-5nH6TT7jc)

The vibe backstage at The Voice is much different than being backstage at concert venues. For one, there are contestants milling about, hundreds of them, all waiting for their cue to step onstage. Rather than a handful of dressing rooms—one for Louis, a few for the band—there are _many_ , and contestants are ushered in and out at the speed of light, makeup slapped on their faces, spun through a quick change, and rushed out to the stage for their performance.

For another thing, inside the judges’ dressing rooms, there is a significantly greater sense of calm than at concert venues. After all, they’re not the ones performing tonight; they’re just there to look nice on camera and enjoy friendly and hopefully humourous banter between them. There are no repeated vocal exercises, no random nervous dancing. Mostly, there is just nonchalant munching on hors d’oeuvres and sipping of wine, waiting to be told they’re about to go live. When they get their cue, they usually pour the contents of their wine glass into an inconspicuous soft drink cup and prance onstage in time for the cameras to begin rolling.

Or at least that’s what Janet tells Harry his first day on the job, and he takes her word for it.

“Let’s see what you’ve brought with you,” Janet declares, crossing her legs and resting her folded hands on her knee. “Oh, this is so exciting.”

Harry rolls the clothing rack to the centre of the dressing room and gestures dramatically with his hands. “Tonight, Ms. Jackson, I bring the following selections.”

First, he holds up a faded grey denim jacket with leather panels on the sleeves. It’s narrowly fitted and it buttons with a single silver button just below the bust. “First, I have this gorgeous Haider Ackermann jacket. I know you love neutrals, especially black, so I’d like to pair this with a pair of metallic black jeans and these babies.” He holds up a pair of black studded ankle boots.

Janet nods, studying the garments Harry holds up. “I just love the fit of that jacket.”

“It’ll flatter your narrow waist and larger bust _fabulously_ ,” Harry agrees. “Want to see more?”

Janet claps her hands in excitement. “Oh, yes.”

“Next I have this outfit.” He selects a black tuxedo jacket with leopard print lapels. “It’s Burberry, one of my personal favourites. We can layer this over a black fitted crop top which I have here, and then pair it with a medium wash high-waisted skinny jean. And of course,” he adds, gesturing to the shoes he placed on the bottom of the garment rack, “the ankle boots would look gorgeous with this outfit as well.”

“I can’t believe how perfect these are,” Janet says, starry-eyed. “Did I tell you I love animal print? I didn’t think I mentioned that.”

“No, you didn’t,” Harry grins. “But I thought you might. And again, the shape of the crop top and the high-waisted jeans combined will also flaunt your smaller waist and wider hips, like the first outfit.”

“It's all about the hips, baby,” Janet chuckles, patting hers with her hands. “I'm loving this so far. You said you have a third? I don't know how I'm supposed to choose.”

Harry holds up one finger, turning around to shuffle through the garments hanging on the clothing rack.

“This one I love,” he explains. “It's a bit retro, a bit 90s inspired.”

“Oh, brilliant.” Janet stands up from the sofa to pour a second glass of wine, which she dangles from two long fingers.

“This is an exquisite Proenza Schouler,” he explains, referring to a chunky white turtleneck jumper he holds up against his torso. “It has a great throwback feel to it, especially when you pair it with these black jeans. But here's my favourite part of this ensemble.” Harry hangs the jumper back on the garment rack and draws a shoebox from the bottom rack. From the box, he lifts a pair of red leather pumps. “These are the new Louboutins. I love them for the pop of colour they bring. It's subtle, but powerful.”

Janet twirls her hand slowly, red wine splashing in her glass. “Harry, I'm speechless.” She shrugs, then places her wine glass on the table, stepping up to the garment rack to examine the pieces closer. “Everything you chose, it's _perfect_. I love the subtle retro vibe.”

Harry grins, folding his hands together in front of his body. “That's exactly what I want to hear. My goal is to capture the _person_ in the wardrobe I select, instead of just choosing what I find aesthetically pleasing.”

“That's the difference between good taste,” Janet says, pressing a finger to the centre of Harry’s chest. “And talent. And you, my darling, are talented.”

Harry blushes and ducks his head to stare at his shoes. “I got to be more creative with these than I've been in a long time,” he admits. “I can't thank you enough for, you know—” he gestures around the room. “Everything.”

Janet dismisses him with a wave of her hand. Retrieving her wine glass, she lifts it into the air between them. “Cheers to change for the better.” She drains the remaining red liquid, then sets the glass down loudly on the table and folds her arms over her chest in front of the clothing rack. “Now. How in the world am I supposed to choose only one of these?”

* * * * *

The next few weeks are chaos, with all of Harry’s belongings scattered between Louis’ house and a rented storage unit. Spending money on rent for a flat that was empty ninety percent of the time seemed foolish to Harry, but they haven’t yet finished purchasing their new place, so he likes to joke that he is temporarily homeless.

They’ve begun packing Louis’ things, too, and the perimeters of most rooms are lined with labeled boxes of books, clothes, and other possessions. On the evening of London Fashion Week’s Versace couture show, Harry is perched on one of the larger boxes in Louis’ bedroom, one leg crossed over the other, watching as Liam helps Louis get ready.

“What’s with the shit-eating grin?” Louis chuckles, kicking his shoes off.

“Feel so...relaxed right now,” Harry muses, placing his chin in his hand and wiggling his foot back and forth.

Liam rolls his eyes and unzips a garment bag in one smooth swipe. “Hard to work with you breathing down my back, twat,” he jokes.

“I’m not breathing down your back, I’m just _watching_. This is your debut,” Harry says, making a sweeping gesture with one arm. “I’m ready to be wowed.”

“Go wait outside,” Liam instructs, pointing toward the doorway.

Harry sighs. “Fine.”

As soon as he’s out of the room, the door closes and locks behind him. He waits by the door, listening to the random noises of zippers being dragged over tiny metal teeth, of trousers hitting the floor.

Finally, the door is pulled open a bit, and Liam pokes his head through. “Ready to see the finished product?”

“So ready,” Harry answers, bouncing on the balls of his feet. 

Liam pulls the door all the way open to allow Harry through, and Harry feels like the breath has been knocked out of him. Louis stands in the centre of the room, hands tucked in the pockets of his tight black trousers. His lips are pressed tight in that little smile he does, and his eyes glitter under the canopy of his long eyelashes. His jawbone is sharp and piercing, his cheekbones hollowed by the natural light that filters through the bedroom window. He’s dressed in a [grey Dolce & Gabbana military jacket](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/originals/32/e4/b5/32e4b553b27bda4149bd0a0ac29bb2c5.jpg) with gold buttons and red accents on the lower sleeves. It opens over a solid black tee, and he wears McQueen creepers to finish the look.

“Oh god, wow,” Harry exhales. “You look sexy and...expensive.” He walks over to press his lips to Louis’ neck. “You smell expensive, too.”

“Expensive?” Louis giggles.

“Mhmm,” Harry murmurs. “Yes. And sexy.”

Liam clears his throat from behind Harry, and he chuckles as Harry backs away.

“My turn?” Harry asks.

Liam holds up a second garment bag. “Shall we?”

* * * * *

**LOUIS TOMLINSON STEPS OUT IN ‘STYLE’ AT LONDON FASHION WEEK PARTY**

_The 23-year-old singer served up perhaps his most daring look yet Tuesday night. All eyes were on him as he stepped out in a dapper Dolce & Gabbana military jacket at a trendy London Fashion Week party this week. The jacket from the latest D&G collection was worn with a basic black trouser and black creepers. _

_Another showstopper was also his handsome accessory. Harry Styles, 21, who is Tomlinson’s former wardrobe stylist, appeared to be the singer’s date to the party, and they looked cozy chatting up notable guests such as Lily Allen, Cara Delevingne, and Adele._

_Rumours have swirled about the nature of their relationship over the past several months, and their appearance at the London party has surely done nothing to stifle the chatter. They served up quite the power-couple look with their coordinating outfits. Styles’ black Burberry coat and red McQueen scarf complemented Tomlinson’s classic colour scheme._

_Tomlinson is enjoying some well-deserved rest after a six month tour in America. He is no doubt expected to be seen out and about more now that he’s back in the UK. His upcoming album is expected to be released in late November._

_We can’t help but wonder if we might be seeing more and more of this dreamy Tomlinson-Styles power couple duo in the near future. We certainly hope so._

* * * * *

[When You Say Nothing At All - Ronan Keating](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7xrxrEEGVdM)

Harry pulls into the drive and shifts the car into park. “This is it,” he whispers.

For the duration of the drive, the sun had made its path to the horizon, and now it sits careless of time over the trees, casting everything it touches into a golden hazy glow. In the shadow of the evening sun sits a house, a rectangular shape that’s grown misty around the edges in the dusty light of dusk. The house is built entirely from faded red brick, and most of the facade consists of sprawling windows with white panes and deep windowsills. To the left of the tall, narrow front door is a round window that juts out from the house and overlooks a small flower garden. A long cobblestone walkway is lined with stones and plants on its path to the front entrance. Sunlight is reflected in the windows in such a way that it appears the house is ablaze inside.

Louis exhales loudly in one short breath. “The real thing.”

They had been here several times by now, but this time it felt tangible, too real to ignore. Inside are stacked piles upon piles of _their_ moving boxes, every one of them containing _their_ combined possessions.

“Do you have the key?” Harry asks.

Louis holds up his hand, and a silver metal object dangles from between his fingers. “Got it.”

“Well, Mr. Tomlinson,” Harry says, placing both hands on his thighs. “Shall we see our new home?”

Louis leans across the centre console and places a hand on Harry’s cheek, turning his face to kiss him softly. “See what?” he murmurs against Harry’s mouth.

Harry smiles. “Our new home.” 

Louis kisses him again in place of an answer, and his eyes dance in the silky smooth evening sunlight as he leans back to climb out of the car. They walk hand in hand up the walkway, Louis twirling the key on his finger.

“The garden looks a bit sad, don’t you think?” Harry muses. “Maybe I should take up gardening.”

“You should take up anything your heart desires, my love,” Louis says, swinging their joined hands between them. It’s strange, this consummation of the most adult thing they’ve done together, and Harry still feels like a blushing teenager. He hopes he always will.

Soft fingers slide over Harry’s palm as Louis removes his hand to grasp the door handle. With his other hand, he slips the key inside the latch and turns it slowly. There’s a barely audible click, and Harry’s heart flutters in his chest.

Inside, the rooms are bare, and there are only brown cardboard boxes in every corner and along every wall. The light is dim, despite the abundance of wide windows and the evening sun that pours over the windowsills into the room.

Harry walks slowly across the wooden floors to gaze out to the back. The window perfectly frames the sunset, and wisps of light linger above the trees, just barely there. A gentle breeze causes the tree branches to tremble as it exhales its last cool breaths of day.

Harry doesn’t know Louis has followed behind him until he presses his lips to the back of Harry’s head and winds his arms around Harry’s waist from behind. His lips graze Harry’s ear as he leans in to whisper to him. 

“Can I have another first kiss?”

Louis’ breath tickles on Harry’s neck so he giggles softly, tilting his head to the side. “First kiss?”

“Our first kiss in our own home,” Louis murmurs.

Harry turns in Louis’ arms until he’s facing him, so close their noses brush. “You can have every single kiss.”

Harry’s eyelids flutter closed, and Louis kisses him like it’s their first and last and every single one in between. Harry kisses like he believes in everything, and Louis kisses him back like it’s what he was made to do.


	4. Part IV: Epilogue

**EPILOGUE**

**February**

“Well, first of all, first of all,” James Corden says, raising his voice to be heard over the audience as their cheers die down. “Louis, it is so good to see you, mate, so good.”

Again, the audience erupts into a mass of screams and applause. Louis grins, his hands clasped in his lap, scanning the crowd. He nods. “Thank you, thank you, yeah, good to be here. Thanks for having me.”

“Now, let’s see, I think—” James leans forward in his chair, adjusting his suit jacket around his waist. “This is your first interview since your announcement in December, is that correct?”

“It is, yeah,” Louis confirms. 

When the article was published in People Magazine on the fifth of December, it was a cold day, the kind of frigid that makes it hard to breathe in through your nostrils, the kind of cold where the air is so freezing it dries your throat. Harry had made them both cups of cinnamon tea, and they’d spread a blanket across their legs on the sofa. His cold toes had tickled Louis’ bare legs, but instead of protesting, Louis had trapped his feet between his calves to warm them up and they’d swapped lazy kisses. If Harry had noticed Louis’ slight shortness of breath due to an abundance of nervous anticipation, he hadn’t said anything. The article was posted online at five o’clock.

**SINGER LOUIS TOMLINSON COMES OUT AS GAY, IN A RELATIONSHIP WITH FORMER STYLIST: “I WOULDN’T BE HERE TODAY WITHOUT HIM”**

“Now, if we could just—can we talk about this a little bit?” James asks, gesturing with his cue card.

Louis can’t contain the grin that spreads itself across his face. “I’d really like to, yeah. I’ve waited for this for a long time, so ask away.”

“First of all I want to congratulate you, before I say anything else. So congratulations on coming out, I’m so proud of you.” When the audience dissolves into cheers again, James nods his head, clapping along with them. “I’m not the only one to say that, I’m sure you know.”

“Thank you,” Louis replies, and he’s sure it’s much too quiet to carry through the microphone over the sounds of the crowd, but he has nothing else to say but ‘thank you.’ 

“Was that—were you nervous to do that? Or did you feel that it was time?”

“Well, you know, I think you can feel both simultaneously, you know? Like, I think you can know that it’s time, that there’s no better time than now, and still be scared by that. So yeah, I was quite nervous.” As he speaks, he allows his gaze to wander over the audience, over their proud, awed, and loving expressions. A lump gathers in the back of his throat, and he swallows around it, attempts to continue. “The worst part of it was waiting. It was a print interview, you know, so I knew when it had been written and I got to read it before it was published, but it was just the waiting that kills you, so. Yeah.”

“It was such a wonderful article,” James says. “I loved the pictures, you know all the—well, here.” He reaches over the arm of his chair and produces a copy of the article. Louis had received a cover photo, as well as a four-page spread inside with full-colour pictures. One of the pictures features a close-up of a large rainbow flag, over which only the top half of Louis’ face appears, eyes wide in a goofy face, his hair slicked up into a tall quiff which takes up nearly half the page. “I just love all the hair here.”

Louis laughs loudly. “Yeah, that was a fun one. Definitely a fun one.”

“I’m just wondering, how long did that _take_? You know, to get all that—” James’ hand hovers over the page.

Louis crosses one leg over the other and chuckles. “A long time. They said, you know, ‘let’s do some big hair for this one,’ and I was like, ‘yeah, sick, let’s do that.’ And then, yeah, it was...I actually started looking through my cousin’s Facebook page at one point.”

“Oh god,” James replies. “That’s when you know it’s bad. But let me ask you, it’s been a few months now. There’s been some time for things to settle before you spoke publicly about it. How have those months been for you?”

“Incredible,” Louis answers without hesitation. “Absolutely incredible. As nervous as I was beforehand, I was twice as relieved afterward. And the fans, they’ve been just—I’m speechless, to be quite honest. I could talk every second I’m awake for the rest of my life and it probably still wouldn’t feel like enough.”

“And now here you are.”

“Here I am,” Louis nods. “Here I am.”

“And someone else is here today too, I believe.”

The crowd explodes, and Louis presses his lips together into a tight smile. “That is true.”

“Shall we bring him out? Yeah? Harry, come on out, come join us.”

Louis turns on the sofa and cranes his neck to watch Harry enter from the side. He’s long and lean in a vertical white and navy striped shirt buttoned halfway and a pair of dark wash skinny jeans. His beloved chelsea boots make a gentle tapping sound as he walks across the stage to join Louis on the sofa. The crowd goes wild for him, of course, and he bashfully pushes his fingers through his hair and offers them a wave and a flash of his dimples.

When he sinks onto the cushions beside Louis, Louis leans over and presses a kiss to his temple. He smells fresh, a bit like citrus, and pulling away from him is like peeling apart two pieces of velcro. But, they’re live and all that.

James leans back in his chair, crossing his legs. “So, so tell me Harry. How does it feel?”

“It feels amazing,” Harry replies. “It’s been a year now, a year and a half or so since I’ve known Louis, and it has felt like such a privilege just to watch him grow and watch him finally get to be honest.”

“Well, I—actually, I meant how does it feel to see the most attractive man on the planet naked every day but your answer is probably better.”

The crowd bursts into laughter, and so does Harry, placing a hand on Louis’ knee. “That’s nice too, believe me.”

Louis glances at him and they make eye contact. Harry’s eyes glitter, and maybe it’s from the stage lights, or maybe it’s from joy. Louis places his hand over Harry’s.

“I’m teasing you,” James chuckles. “It’s crazy though, you know, there’s like this—you’ve taken over the world. Do you know that? Since December it’s been your world, we’re all just living in it.”

Judging by the cheers and applause, the audience agrees.

“I am very lucky,” Louis says. “I know I said this in the article, but I wouldn’t be here now, I wouldn’t be out, I wouldn’t be doing this on your show today if it weren’t for Harry. He really was the one who made me believe that I could do this. That I deserved to do it, you know?”

Harry is gazing down at his lap, nodding as Louis talks, then he glances up at Louis and smiles fondly.

“Clearly you’re very happy together and I know I speak for everyone when I say how happy I am to be able to see you in a position where you can freely express that,” James says.

When Harry and Louis both offer their thanks, James continues, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “But I know you’ve been together for quite some time now, is that right?”

Louis nods. “Quite a bit, yeah.”

“Right, so here’s the thing.” James gestures behind them, where a number of headlines mentioning their names together have flashed up on the screen. “The tabloids have had a good time with this the past few months, trying to figure out what’s going on here, so I was thinking maybe you could help clear some things up. I want to play a little game.”

“Oh god,” Harry chuckles with a shake of his head.

“Harry, don’t—it’ll be fun. It’s very simple, it’s called ‘True or False.’ Here’s how it’s played.” A single headline appears on the screen, followed by a quote from its accompanying article in bold print. “I’m going to pick some of the more interesting quotes from articles about you over the past few months, and you have to tell me _honestly_ whether the quote is true, or whether it is false. Can you both handle that?”

“I mean, I don’t know about this one,” Louis says, nodding his head in Harry’s direction. “But I’m up for it.”

Harry waves a hand in front of his face. “Let me put my game face on.”

Louis laughs, bumping into Harry with his shoulder. “You ready then, love?”

“Ready.”

“Okay, here’s the first one. I believe this comes from the night of the LGBT Switchboard Dinner where you wore the matching floral pattern.” James turns in his seat to read from the screen. “‘We love the matchy-matchy look they have going on, and we can only assume that the close pals like to match in everyday situations, too. Matching pyjama sets, perhaps?’” He leans to his side on one arm. “So is that true or false, guys?”

Harry covers his hands with his face to hide his laughter, and Louis coughs into his fist. “I like the ‘close pals’ line. But yeah, I’m going to say false.”

“Babe,” Harry chokes out with a laugh. “What about those matching slippers we bought in—”

“But the quote said every _day_ ,” Louis whines. “They’re slippers, so we only match during the cold months of the year.”

“Oh, Louis, Louis,” James says, wagging a finger. “This game doesn’t work if you’re not honest. So the first one is true, then. Ready for the next one?”

“Ready,” Harry answers.

“Sugarscape wrote, ‘The pair were so cozy and comfortable, we can’t help but picture them as the domestic friends (or more-than-friends) who text one another to pick up milk and watch cheap telly instead of going out to the clubs.’ True or false?”

“That’s false,” Louis declares. “That really is false this time.”

“I do text you about milk quite often, though,” Harry adds.

“But we go to the clubs! The first night we _met_ we went out for drinks.”

“That’s true,” Harry agrees. “I’ll answer false too, then.”

“First time we met stories? It doesn’t get much more domestic than that, boys,” James chuckles, throwing the audience a dramatic wink.

Harry and Louis both grin at the audience, who are going wild at the discussion of domesticity. Harry probably is, too, though he’s wearing a cool front. Harry would deny it if Louis ever told the story, but once during sex, he asked Louis to talk about purchasing a family minivan to throw him over the edge. And it _worked_.

“Okay, we have one more left. Are you ready? The Sun, way back last spring, wrote the following: ‘Louis Tomlinson is rumoured to be dating American model Christen Bergeron, but at last night’s concert, Louis was caught seeking out his stylist Harry Styles in the audience and giving him a look that can only be described as ‘affectionate.’ Seems to us like the singer may have a small crush.’”

Louis can feel the heat bloom in his cheeks. Harry is giggling beside him, anxiously awaiting his answer.

Louis clears his throat. “Actually, that one’s rather funny because last spring, we weren’t dating yet. Neither of us knew how the other one felt.”

“Well,” James gestures with both arms between the screen and the pair on the sofa. “The _tabloids_ knew.”

“They did, yeah,” Louis exhales a quiet laugh. “That one’s true.”

The audience screams and claps, and Harry drapes an arm around Louis’ shoulders, pulling him in for a kiss on the cheek. “True.”

* * * * *

**June**

[I Do Not Love You - Ron Pope](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hjwAdlsiAyA)

Broadway is all but deserted at four o’clock in the morning on a hazy late June day. Time is suspended, the surroundings illuminated by the glow of neon signs and blinking billboards beneath a canopy of darkness. It's eerie, somehow, the way the lights shine tirelessly over empty streets. Louis and Harry walk hand in hand in front of darkened store fronts, headed in the direction of Times Square. 

“I thought this was the city that never sleeps,” Louis whispers. “Seems pretty sleepy to me.”

Harry exhales a breathy laugh and shakes his head. “You may love the four A.M. feeling, but not everyone does.”

“Yeah, I do,” Louis smiles, placing his free hand over Harry’s bicep.

They reach the wide intersection of Times Square, the buildings stretching to touch the velvet sky on either side of them.

“Here we are,” Harry murmurs.

Louis glances around them, confused. The lights haven't been turned out, but nothing nearby is open. There's not a soul around. 

“Um,” Louis whispers, resting his chin on Harry’s shoulder. “Where?”

Harry turns his head to press a kiss to Louis’ hair, then he reaches into his pocket to pull out an envelope. “I have something for you. Come here.” 

Louis follows behind Harry, their fingers laced together, to the centre of the intersection. Where the roads meet, there’s a small round section of concrete with a single traffic light and a rubbish bin. It’s empty space in the midst of light and sensation, a moment of calm inside this wild city that heaves and sighs like a living being.

They stand face to face, and the toes of their shoes kiss one another. Harry holds the envelope between both hands. 

“So,” Harry begins, exhaling slowly through strawberry coloured lips. “I guess you could call this a surprise. I know you hate surprises. I did too, until I was wonderfully surprised by you.”

“Harry,” Louis breathes. His heart aches, feels like it’s trying to expand beyond what his chest can bear, and he reaches out to tuck a curl behind Harry’s ear.

“A year and seven months ago, in a New York hotel room, I received a phone call telling me there was a job waiting for me back home. I was on a nonstop flight to London the next day. A little less than a year and seven months ago, I fell in love.”

Light dances in Harry’s glassy eyes, and the wind blows a curl into his face. Louis quickly pushes it back, his eyes searching Harry’s.

“A long time ago you told me that you never wanted to be someone who lets life just _happen_ to you. You told me that you wanted your life to be a life you chose, from start to finish. And tonight, in the centre of all things, in the city where my life changed,” Harry says, gesturing to the glittering scene that surrounds them. “I want to ask you to choose me. To choose me today, choose me tomorrow, choose me forever.”

Louis’ heartbeat thunders in his ears. They’ve been standing here for years already, and the seconds rise and fall like waves in the spaces between Harry’s words. Everything spins around with them at the centre, still, unmoving. 

“But I want to make sure you know that if you choose me, this is what you’re choosing.” Harry lowers the envelope to his side in one hand, and the other finds its way into Louis’. “I promise to cook you breakfast every morning, even if it’s just handfuls of cereal sometimes.”

“Oh, god,” Louis whispers. He feels it. He feels it pure and strong and it’s what is making Louis’ eyes sting with tears.

“I promise to mend all your shirts,” Harry continues. “Even if you ripped them on purpose.”

Louis laughs, and it comes out a choked, wet sound. He squeezes Harry’s hand so tight he thinks they may fuse together at their fingertips.

“I promise to never get tired of Friends reruns, even if we’ve watched the same episode twenty times before. I promise to always make sure your voice is warm, and to remember milk in your coffee, not cream.”

Tears are brimming in Harry’s eyes now, too, and one spills over onto his cheek. Louis swipes it away with his thumb.

“I promise to always tell you knock-knock jokes when you need to laugh. I promise to let you stare at my arse when I vacuum, and to pretend like I don’t have a clue that’s what you’re doing.” He cuts off, and they laugh quietly together, partly because it’s funny, and partly because they’re crying in the centre of Times Square at four o’clock in the morning and the world is about to burst into beautiful, beautiful flames. “I promise to sing in the car with you. And most of all, I promise to love you. I’ve chosen you today, I’ll choose you tomorrow, and I’ll choose you forever. And there is nothing in this world—” Harry pauses, cut off by a quiet gasp that catches in his throat. “—that would bring me more joy than knowing you’ll choose me too.”

“So.” Harry lifts the envelope again, and offers it to Louis. “This is for you.”

Heart fluttering, Louis turns the envelope over in his hands. A small blue heart is scribbled over the centre of the seal. He glances up at Harry, who nods. “Open it.”

Louis inserts a finger beneath the seal of the envelope and carefully tears it open. Inside is a boarding pass. ‘NY → LDN’ is printed at the top, and Harry’s name is emblazoned below it. It’s dated 6 November, 2014.

A year and seven months ago.

In the centre, in thick black marker resembling Harry’s looped handwriting, is written:

_Marry me?_

Louis gasps, his hand flying up to cover his mouth. When he looks up, Harry has lowered himself to the ground, and he’s bent on one knee. His elbow rests on his opposite thigh, and he holds a black velvet box with something round and silver tucked in the centre.

“Harry.”

Louis lurches forward, colliding with Harry with such force he nearly sends them both toppling over into the street. He throws both arms around Harry’s neck and kisses him. He kisses him like he forgets how to do anything else. It’s everything Louis could ever hope to say, and everything he knows he’ll never be able to. It’s ‘I love you’ and it’s ‘forever’ and it’s ‘yes’ in a thousand different languages, and it’s a choice.

It’s a good one. 

[How Long Will I Love You - Jon Boden](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aSgU0gNL2Ac)

**Author's Note:**

>  **Disclaimer: This story is, of course, a work of fiction. It's just for fun and is in no way intended to depict any truth about its characters' real life counterparts, especially where it relates to the characters' families. Except Simon. He's equally nasty in real life.**  
>   
> 
> Come say hello/let me know what you thought on[ Tumblr](http://scrabbleharrie.tumblr.com) :)


End file.
